tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6729914410536516567Tue, 23 Dec 2014 09:19:05 +0000in the next apartmenthttp://inthenextapartment.blogspot.com/noreply@blogger.com (Marmur Medical)Blogger64125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6729914410536516567.post-6124270975891622580Mon, 14 Nov 2011 18:38:00 +00002011-11-14T11:04:15.269-08:00borrowed glory<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S0u8z-f3at4/TsFkFzH-CDI/AAAAAAAABGs/wZT_-jLlL3s/s1600/jock.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 270px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S0u8z-f3at4/TsFkFzH-CDI/AAAAAAAABGs/wZT_-jLlL3s/s400/jock.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674927056249292850" /></a><br /><br />I get such a kick out of having talented friends — especially when they’re getting the credit and attention they deserve. The beginning of this month, I went to three different events, each spotlighting a friend and his accomplishments. It’s enough to make me feel like I’m hot stuff myself.<br /><br />Thursday the 3rd was an evening in honor of Jock Soto, one of my favorite dancers <span style="font-style:italic;">ever</span>, and now the author of an absolutely charming and honest memoir, <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/every-step-you-take-jock-soto/1101990702?ean=9780061732386&itm=1&usri=every%252bstep%252byou%252btake%252ba%252bmemoir"><span style="font-style:italic;">Every Step You Take</span></a>. During my years of utter ballet obsession, Jock and his partner, the glorious Wendy Whelan, were etched into my consciousness with their fierce modernism and gorgeous emotional resonance. I couldn’t get enough, sometimes going to see New York City Ballet three times a week during the season (which I now realize ain’t nuthin’ compared to what the real ballet kooks do, but most of them aren’t exactly role models for even a relatively sane person). <br /><br />Then, when I worked at NYCB, no matter how hellish my day, I could always slip into a rehearsal studio and watch dancers at work. Without a doubt, the best of those times were watching Christopher Wheeldon actually create ballets on Wendy and Jock — first <a href="http://www.nycballet.com/company/rep.html?rep=449"><span style="font-style:italic;">Morphoses</span></a>, a spiky, dark, twisty piece, brightened by quick jokes and rich connections, and then, glory glory glory, <a href="http://www.nycballet.com/company/rep.html?rep=464"><span style="font-style:italic;">After the Rain</span></a>, an unbelievable work with one of my favorite pas de deux ever, made for Jock’s farewell year. That brief pas de deux (not quite 10 minutes long) has so much emotion and love and sadness built into it that when it ends, with the both of them lying on the floor and Jock folding Wendy’s body over his as the curtain comes down, the audience goes absolutely crazy, as if they’d just watched an entire epic unfold in front of them.<br /><br />After Jock retired (performing<span style="font-style:italic;"> After the Rain</span>, along with four other ballets, in his final performance), he wrote a memoir, among other <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/06/fashion/weddings/jock-soto-and-luis-fuentes-vows.html?pagewanted=all">things</a>. Last Thursday, the National Museum of the American Indian (located in the handsome old Customs House) hosted an evening in his honor. First, we nibbled on hors d’oeuvres from Jock’s own recipes and watched footage from Gwendolen Cates’ documentary about Jock, <a href="http://waterflowingtogether.com/"><span style="font-style:italic;">Water Flowing Together</span></a>. Then, we all filed into the auditorium, where Jock charmed the hell out of everyone, talking about his book, reading excerpts, showing off his new wedding ring, and just being generally irresistible.<br /><br />(A year or two ago, The New York Times ran <span style="font-style:italic;">[on the first page]</span> a classically ham-fisted article about how NYCB dancers were giving brief pre-curtain, onstage chats to introduce the programs; the gist of the article was along the lines of, “BREAKING NEWS! DANCERS SPEAK!,” with shock expressed that they could be so articulate! so winning! so funny! I was embarrassed, really, on behalf of the Times.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tc-EWquc-8k/TsFkGYYEElI/AAAAAAAABG4/mUHbJrfxm-4/s1600/jim.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tc-EWquc-8k/TsFkGYYEElI/AAAAAAAABG4/mUHbJrfxm-4/s400/jim.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674927066248909394" /></a><br /><br />That was Thursday. On Friday, I trekked over to <a href="http://www.192books.com/">192 Books</a> in Chelsea, a gem of a bookstore, where the mighty James Wolcott was reading from <span style="font-style:italic;">his</span> new memoir, <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/lucking-out-james-wolcott/1102589189?ean=9780385527781&itm=1&usri=lucking%252bout"><span style="font-style:italic;">Lucking Out: My Life Getting Down and Semi-Dirty in Seventies New York</span></a>. Now Jim has become the Fairy Godmother of the blog world (in the Cinderella sense, not the Halloween Parade sense), tapping his shout-out wand to bring light and readers to several lucky bloggers, including myself. He’s also a fellow ballet fan (and fellow hater of the cabal of ballet critics / trolls), and a mean <a href="http://www.vanityfair.com/online/wolcott">blogger</a> (and <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/JamesWolcott">Tweeter</a>) himself, especially when it comes to the vicious hypocrisy of the radical right. <br /><br />He’s also a longtime New Yorker, and <span style="font-style:italic;">Lucking Out</span> chronicles his first years in the city, the gritty and greasy 1970s, and his picaresque adventures that led him from movie screening dates with Pauline Kael, to countless nights at CBGB with the likes of <a href="http://inthenextapartment.blogspot.com/2011/01/string-of-words.html">Patti Smith</a> and the <a href="http://inthenextapartment.blogspot.com/2009/06/avoiding-well-how-did-i-get-here.html">Talking Heads</a>, to some fairly sordid and long-gone establishments in Times Square. All this, relayed in Jim’s distinct sentences that loop and dive and leap, and always land precisely on target. <br /><br />In Jim’s book and on his blog, despite the seriousness of the material or the sometimes blunt language, you always get the sense of delight and effortlessness, as if he’s lightly bounding from one skyscraper tip to another, or gliding across very very very thin ice, no problemo, weaving complicated patterns that deliver thrills to the reader. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Lucking Out</span> is one of those books that, if someone else is in the room with you while you’re reading it, that someone is going to hear a lot of “Oh my god, you <span style="font-style:italic;">have</span> to hear this,” followed by quotes such as these:<br /><br /><blockquote>On being fired by the Village Voice: <br />From that point onward, I never worked a regular office job again, soleey writing for a living, something that would have been impossible if New York hadn’t been a city of low rents and crappy expectations that didn’t require a trust fund or a six-figure income for the privilege of watching everything fall apart before your eyes. The availability of affordable, problem-plagued, loosely enforced sublets made zigzag lateral movement throughout the city relatively easy, not like it would become a decade later, when each real-estate decision would pyramid under the worry load of upward mobility. In the early seventies, New York landlords were less choosy about whom they rented to, more laissez-faire as long as you didn’t give off a whiff of arson. <br /><br />On the birth of the mosh pit: <br />Pogoing, too, was an English import, an indoor exercise perfect for tight spots, turing the pogoer into a hopping human exclamation mark…. Pogoing was compared to the hopping of the Masai, but the Masai hopped in unison, at least in the African documentaries and dubious colonial-war movie footage I had seen, whereas this indoor bouncing was closer to Whac-a-Mole with shaven and Mohawked heads popping up through the holes. <br /><br />On the vestiges of the CBGB’s scene: <br />A stretch of East Second Street was later renamed in honor of Joey [Ramone], the commemorative sign eventually raised twenty feet above ground level after having been stolen so often. That’s where so much creative excitement ends up, with souvenir collecting.<br /><br />On the aural proximity of the New York neighbor: <br />The young man in the adjacent apartment to me was having chronic boyfriend problems with Billy, whose name received extra l’s whenever my neighbor was distraught. “Billllllllly, why do you keep doing this to me?” Whatever it was that Billy was doing, he kept doing it, because the same desperate plea bargaining was played out over the phone again and again, as if the plaintiff were stuck to a script written on flypaper. Sometimes Billy would come over, and they would fight for a bit and then go out, or go out and then fight when they got back. I would pound on the wall, they would pound back, and really that’s what being a New Yorker was about then. </blockquote><br />Jim gives the reader a vivid vision of his New York in the 1970s, and makes it appealing and exciting without any saccharine sentiment or cloying nostalgia. It’s quite a tightrope act, and one he handles without any apparent hesitation.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T-8eibTbD1Q/TsFkFu8_2PI/AAAAAAAABGg/e6tl8v8falc/s1600/sensedance.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T-8eibTbD1Q/TsFkFu8_2PI/AAAAAAAABGg/e6tl8v8falc/s400/sensedance.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674927055129532658" /></a><br /><br />My spree of rubbing shoulders with the talented creative class finished up with a terrific performance by <a href="http://sensedance.org/">SenseDance</a>, celebrating its twentieth season, quite an accomplishment for a small, independent dance company. SenseDance is headed up by Henning Rübsam, a friend from my years in the ballet world (where I was emphatically not a dancer) and an absolutely lovely person who always seems delighted by what the world is offering him. The program last Monday showed his choreographic reach, from taut and modern to sweet and silly to just plain gorgeous. His dancers were wonderful — human and natural, and deeply invested in the choreography. (My favorite was Maria Phegan — what a beauty she is; that's her, pictured at left with former NYCB dancer Max van der Sterre, in an image by Nir Arieli.) <br /><br />This little whirlwind of fandom served as a helpful reminder that there is a lot of work involved in creating something, and a lot of sacrifices. You have to structure your life around your work, not squeeze in an hour here and there, and you’ve got to crack the whip, and all for delayed gratification: working is satisfying in and of itself, but it ain’t half so satisfying as finishing something. As Jim said in his reading, “Writers write for recognition. Anyone who tells you anything else is lying.” And writers who talk about feeling lost and adrift after they finish a book? “They’re lying. Writing is tough and makes you crazy. Finishing is <span style="font-style:italic;">great</span>.”http://inthenextapartment.blogspot.com/2011/11/borrowed-glory.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Marmur Medical)13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6729914410536516567.post-4582263544718077866Wed, 13 Apr 2011 13:20:00 +00002011-04-13T06:48:09.009-07:00It's not much...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-X6PvvttiUx4/TaWl3o6sjwI/AAAAAAAABF0/cmIF4mmp-d8/s1600/IMG_0517.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-X6PvvttiUx4/TaWl3o6sjwI/AAAAAAAABF0/cmIF4mmp-d8/s400/IMG_0517.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595060487372705538" /></a><br />... but it was home for a few days. This is the château we stayed in, which was very quiet, very elegant, very secret. "We don't really want the publicity," the dapper manager, Olivier, told us when we asked why there was so little info on the property. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vGtq7Yxu2AY/TaWl3x0EDZI/AAAAAAAABGE/ug3XsnrxfCQ/s1600/IMG_0622.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vGtq7Yxu2AY/TaWl3x0EDZI/AAAAAAAABGE/ug3XsnrxfCQ/s400/IMG_0622.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595060489760804242" /></a><br /><br />As long as there's a room available, I don't really care about the marketing outreach strategy. Just please bring me some more baguette and jam and coffee, and then I'm off to stroll along the terrace, and wander through the woods, and breathe in the impossibly clean air. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-b2NORkYGFrY/TaWl4Jpx0xI/AAAAAAAABGM/rUbCHf7nFZY/s1600/IMG_0631.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-b2NORkYGFrY/TaWl4Jpx0xI/AAAAAAAABGM/rUbCHf7nFZY/s400/IMG_0631.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595060496160117522" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uHmO6tP6ZvU/TaWl3y74GSI/AAAAAAAABF8/9FeVRIQLzDo/s1600/IMG_0611.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uHmO6tP6ZvU/TaWl3y74GSI/AAAAAAAABF8/9FeVRIQLzDo/s400/IMG_0611.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595060490062010658" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-i7TvCJUqU1Y/TaWl43Og-eI/AAAAAAAABGU/Rc3hPrumgPQ/s1600/IMG_0638.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-i7TvCJUqU1Y/TaWl43Og-eI/AAAAAAAABGU/Rc3hPrumgPQ/s400/IMG_0638.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595060508393798114" /></a>http://inthenextapartment.blogspot.com/2011/04/its-not-much.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Marmur Medical)4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6729914410536516567.post-6786964322857666894Tue, 12 Apr 2011 15:55:00 +00002011-04-12T09:10:11.939-07:00A typical day in La Loire - part two<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WoScctbQrSU/TaR4TI0uL-I/AAAAAAAABFs/hvHbx6ZNDDI/s1600/IMG_0587.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WoScctbQrSU/TaR4TI0uL-I/AAAAAAAABFs/hvHbx6ZNDDI/s400/IMG_0587.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594728907282460642" /></a><br /><br />After a tragically disappointing lunch at a little spot in the village, about which I will say no more, we zoomed off to the next château on the itinerary: Villandry, which is known for its astonishing gardens. The story of the château is quite something: it was built in the 16th century, on the grounds of a demolished 12th-century fortress (the keep and the foundation are all that remain); it was "upgraded" in the 18th century, and the traditional garden was destroyed in the 19th century in favor of an English-style park (<span style="font-style:italic;"><a href="http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Arcadia/Stoppard/e/9780571169344/?itm=1&USRI=arcadia">Arcadia</a></span>, anyone?). <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Kav6fbDWECM/TaR4S98Zl0I/AAAAAAAABFk/74xSfznN8Yo/s1600/IMG_0571.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Kav6fbDWECM/TaR4S98Zl0I/AAAAAAAABFk/74xSfznN8Yo/s400/IMG_0571.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594728904361875266" /></a><br /><br />In 1906, it was acquired by an American heiress, Ann Coleman, and her Spanish husband, Joachim Carvallo. These two non-French people restored Villandry to its earlier glory, and lived there with their children (it's so odd to wander around this museum, looking at both 17th-century paintings and 20th-century family snaps). Carvallo became determined to turn the grounds into gardens appropriate to the château's era, and to make them absolute show-stoppers.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9txYKMkVZX4/TaR4SFxLReI/AAAAAAAABFU/8uyIoErIAfQ/s1600/IMG_0601.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9txYKMkVZX4/TaR4SFxLReI/AAAAAAAABFU/8uyIoErIAfQ/s400/IMG_0601.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594728889282414050" /></a><br /><br />As you can see from the photos, he succeeded. For all of you out there planning your summer gardens, here are a few Villandry-inspired tips: <br /><br />Design your garden to replicate Renaissance ideals: highest should be a formal water garden (swans included), signifying the soul. On a lower level you'll need an ornamental garden, symbolizing the heart, with intricate arrangements of boxwood-bordered flowerbeds delineating various concepts of love: tender, passionate, fickle, and tragic. And then at the lowest level, symbolizing the body, set up a vast checkerboard of a <span style="font-style:italic;">potager</span>, or vegetable garden, with all the beds outlined in hedges, and each overseen by a single rose bush standing in for the monk who would have tended gardens like this back in the day.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9yWHdUwhwOY/TaR4SSbIAII/AAAAAAAABFc/n2oVVzQ41TE/s1600/IMG_0578.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9yWHdUwhwOY/TaR4SSbIAII/AAAAAAAABFc/n2oVVzQ41TE/s400/IMG_0578.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594728892679585922" /></a><br /><br />Throw in a maze, a canal, a garden of medicinal and cooking herbs, ancient pruned lime trees bordering every square centimeter, and a belvedere high above it all for the view, and you'll be the talk of the neighborhood association. <br /><br />After hours spent wandering the gardens and taking zillions of photos, we headed to our fourth château of the day, Château de Noizay, where we had a lovely dinner. It wasn't quite as special as Le Bon Laboreur — a bit too Relais & Château-y for my taste — but nothing to sneeze at. <br /><br />Then we headed home to our own little château, the one we love best; one always prefers one's own castle, even if it's not quite as grand as Villandry. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Fg8wuuBIUnk/TaR4Rxl5puI/AAAAAAAABFM/DfEJctrVCKs/s1600/IMG_0603.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Fg8wuuBIUnk/TaR4Rxl5puI/AAAAAAAABFM/DfEJctrVCKs/s400/IMG_0603.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594728883866412770" /></a>http://inthenextapartment.blogspot.com/2011/04/typical-day-in-la-loire-part-two.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Marmur Medical)2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6729914410536516567.post-3021829222886989443Tue, 12 Apr 2011 15:49:00 +00002011-04-12T08:54:48.284-07:00A typical day in La Loire - part one<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NOQ92kVOnG0/TaR1K7j0p_I/AAAAAAAABE8/orSPxQLJp84/s1600/IMG_0550.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NOQ92kVOnG0/TaR1K7j0p_I/AAAAAAAABE8/orSPxQLJp84/s400/IMG_0550.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594725467748083698" /></a><br /><br />Obviously, a typical day in the Loire involves châteaux. On Tuesday, we hit four of 'em.<br /><br />We had a lovely breakfast at "our" château (which included some butter that I could have eaten straight up, with a spoon), then drove over to Azay-le-Rideau, which everyone had told us was the absolute gem of the Loire, so beautiful, so charming, the setting, the mirror effect, etc.<br /><br />Maybe I was already jaded, one day in, but Azay-le-R, to me, had nothin' on Chenonceau. Or maybe it's just that your first château is always your best, and even after one day, Chenonceau had already acquired a golden haze of loveliness.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tBNcQMgl9nk/TaR1LDB5XeI/AAAAAAAABFE/xYSXCUi1ADY/s1600/IMG_0562.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tBNcQMgl9nk/TaR1LDB5XeI/AAAAAAAABFE/xYSXCUi1ADY/s400/IMG_0562.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594725469753269730" /></a><br /><br />At any rate, the best thing about Azay to me was the name, which kept morphing in my head to <a href="http://25daysinparis.blogspot.com/2009/05/jour-no-21-zazie-dans-le-metro.html">Zazie-dans-le-Métro</a> — a lovely film, to be sure, but not very Renaissance, perhaps. Of course, Azay is indeed lovely, but half of it was shut up for renos (which they neglected to mention at the ticket desk), and it just didn't have the pizzazz of Chenonceau. (However, it is on a charming little island, and having to cross over water to get to the front door just has such class.)<br /><br />The weather, however, was absolument parfait — <span style="font-style:italic;">finally</span>. A truly gorgeous spring day that didn't start off with morning haze or trickle off into afternoon gloom. Just bright blue skies, loads of sunshine, and a charming little French breeze filled with charming French birdsongs. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GGpuKEuzcy8/TaR1KkYqUHI/AAAAAAAABE0/KHvcskP3J64/s1600/IMG_0530.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GGpuKEuzcy8/TaR1KkYqUHI/AAAAAAAABE0/KHvcskP3J64/s400/IMG_0530.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594725461527253106" /></a>http://inthenextapartment.blogspot.com/2011/04/typical-day-in-la-loire-part-one.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Marmur Medical)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6729914410536516567.post-3521608318240835969Sun, 10 Apr 2011 17:50:00 +00002011-04-10T11:27:47.349-07:00My first châteaux<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--iDft0k_jcc/TaH09rEmliI/AAAAAAAABEE/wld5P7jWx-Q/s1600/IMG_0436%2B2.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--iDft0k_jcc/TaH09rEmliI/AAAAAAAABEE/wld5P7jWx-Q/s400/IMG_0436%2B2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594021552542094882" /></a><br /><br />On this, my fourth trip to France, I <span style="font-style:italic;">finally</span> took a trip outside of Paris: to the Loire valley, where I found out that fairy-tale castles do indeed exist. We hopped on TGV and an hour later were in a dingy suburb of Tours, where we picked up a rental minivan (my first time driving in Europe!) called, incongruously enough, Le Picasso and headed to Amboise. Just the day before, when we <span style="font-style:italic;">still</span> had not made any concrete plans for our three-day excursion, a friend excited said, "You have to go to where we were married! You have to stay in the château!" No complaints from me — I've always felt, on some level, that I belonged in a château, and this one fit the bill: not too big, as châteaux go, quiet, unpretentious (no cheesy certification from some random corrupt hotel association, no ostentatious "luxury" items), on the most beautiful grounds, and with a staff of invisible workers who we never, ever saw. Our only contact was with Olivier, the manager, who nonchalantly chose a room for us when we arrived, not even asking for a credit card.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FgYLIGyWNZY/TaH1La9qzRI/AAAAAAAABEs/h259UrwS7gQ/s1600/IMG_0462%2B2.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FgYLIGyWNZY/TaH1La9qzRI/AAAAAAAABEs/h259UrwS7gQ/s400/IMG_0462%2B2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594021788736212242" /></a><br /><br />The Loire is magical. We visited one château on Monday — Chenonceau, which is privately owned and in excellent condition. It's built over a river — Catherine de Medici's idea — and the rooms are filled with objets and paintings and furniture and so forth, as well as piles of fresh flowers from the gardens. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hzHpeFbG1_k/TaH0966AQpI/AAAAAAAABEM/HBiWZ8bkTQk/s1600/IMG_0417.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hzHpeFbG1_k/TaH0966AQpI/AAAAAAAABEM/HBiWZ8bkTQk/s400/IMG_0417.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594021556792607378" /></a><br /><br />You approach the château by walking down a long allée of tall trees, with just a glimmer of the castle in the distance: <span style="font-style:italic;">exactly</span> like New York City Ballet's production of The Sleeping Beauty. I just could not get over it. Oh, and you pass an ancient keep, then cross a drawbridge. I mean, <span style="font-style:italic;">come on</span>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Xg3G_vtCMJE/TaH0-X5DVYI/AAAAAAAABEc/10ac0dYqkm0/s1600/IMG_0483%2B2.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Xg3G_vtCMJE/TaH0-X5DVYI/AAAAAAAABEc/10ac0dYqkm0/s400/IMG_0483%2B2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594021564573242754" /></a><br /><br />We spent hours there, checking out every room, wandering the gardens, trying unsuccessfully to get lost in the maze. The sun came out (finally!) in the late afternoon, just before we discovered the tulip garden, which was positively aglow. I took about six hundred pictures of the flowers (like I've said, it's been a loooooong winter), and bored R. silly going on about the ancient wisteria.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gJK7VovJFgw/TaH0-Gb-2qI/AAAAAAAABEU/liqI2MEIvPI/s1600/IMG_0466.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gJK7VovJFgw/TaH0-Gb-2qI/AAAAAAAABEU/liqI2MEIvPI/s400/IMG_0466.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594021559887911586" /></a><br /><br />Then we had possibly the best meal of the whole trip: dinner at Le Bon Laboreur, an auberge right by Chenonceau. Highlights were the amuse-bouche of carrot velouté with cumin cream, the local chèvres, and the roasted pineapple with chantilly cream and sponge cake. Oh, and the local wines: Vouvray pétillant (my new favorite word from the trip, translated as "sparkling") and the Pouilly-Fumé. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-c7IWfXIToQA/TaH0-yuw13I/AAAAAAAABEk/1A2fAUIfgtc/s1600/IMG_0511%2B2.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-c7IWfXIToQA/TaH0-yuw13I/AAAAAAAABEk/1A2fAUIfgtc/s400/IMG_0511%2B2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594021571777845106" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Note: All the photos are of Chenonceau.</span>http://inthenextapartment.blogspot.com/2011/04/my-first-chateaux.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Marmur Medical)5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6729914410536516567.post-1110115921742565139Fri, 08 Apr 2011 20:54:00 +00002011-04-08T14:05:06.269-07:00Dimanche<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-izmEG_Z_J2k/TZ93zP7s0pI/AAAAAAAABDU/3wwgbMNc57E/s1600/IMG_0342.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-izmEG_Z_J2k/TZ93zP7s0pI/AAAAAAAABDU/3wwgbMNc57E/s400/IMG_0342.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593320984551412370" /></a><br /><br />Perhaps our top Paris experience was an impromptu late afternoon / early evening Velib ride. On your next trip to Paris, you <span style="font-style:italic;">must</span> rent a Velib and bike around, and please please please, go to the Louvre courtyards after dark, when the exterior is lit up, and the pyramid is glowing, and then ride across the Seing and watch the Eiffel Tower's spotlight shine against the sunset. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Hj5wrHUaoVM/TZ93_zTsdFI/AAAAAAAABD8/GJeHDVqob80/s1600/IMG_0365.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Hj5wrHUaoVM/TZ93_zTsdFI/AAAAAAAABD8/GJeHDVqob80/s400/IMG_0365.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593321200205722706" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qa_7cA-33uM/TZ93z6rGzjI/AAAAAAAABD0/sIz0cLKOn1o/s1600/IMG_0359.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qa_7cA-33uM/TZ93z6rGzjI/AAAAAAAABD0/sIz0cLKOn1o/s400/IMG_0359.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593320996024536626" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QLzY_148XPc/TZ93zu5-vWI/AAAAAAAABDs/5x8DSkEAbJM/s1600/IMG_0358.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QLzY_148XPc/TZ93zu5-vWI/AAAAAAAABDs/5x8DSkEAbJM/s400/IMG_0358.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593320992865697122" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-b8iziAhOrrk/TZ93zg7NKhI/AAAAAAAABDk/9NXiusakfT0/s1600/IMG_0354.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-b8iziAhOrrk/TZ93zg7NKhI/AAAAAAAABDk/9NXiusakfT0/s400/IMG_0354.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593320989112740370" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0OwzX9IGjLw/TZ93zc1AiGI/AAAAAAAABDc/RqKG_ldgJGg/s1600/IMG_0369.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0OwzX9IGjLw/TZ93zc1AiGI/AAAAAAAABDc/RqKG_ldgJGg/s400/IMG_0369.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593320988013004898" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />PS: I'm back in NYC, and catching up on the blogging -- I'll post a few more "from" the Loire and Paris.</span>http://inthenextapartment.blogspot.com/2011/04/dimanche.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Marmur Medical)2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6729914410536516567.post-4239429899539556567Wed, 06 Apr 2011 08:53:00 +00002011-04-06T01:53:31.006-07:00Samedi<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lsJnbAgStiA/TZuJ9QwpT9I/AAAAAAAABC0/fSKCR_Aprik/s1600/IMG_0325.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lsJnbAgStiA/TZuJ9QwpT9I/AAAAAAAABC0/fSKCR_Aprik/s400/IMG_0325.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592215047874629586" /></a><br /><br />For almost our entire time in France (and I'm writing this on our eighth day), the weather forecast for the coming days has been gorgeous: sunny, 70s, breezy. And then the day comes, and it's grey and windy and damp. It's rather like a "Jam yesterday, and jam tomorrow, but never jam today."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4kUaraTFkX8/TZuJ-_TzUjI/AAAAAAAABDM/1yEBSNqFmQ0/s1600/IMG_0330.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4kUaraTFkX8/TZuJ-_TzUjI/AAAAAAAABDM/1yEBSNqFmQ0/s400/IMG_0330.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592215077549986354" /></a><br /><br />However, Saturday was gorgeous — a perfect Parisian spring day, with everyone out and enjoying the parks, streets, outdoor cafés, and plazas. We finally made it to Grande Epicerie (one of my favorites), the huge food hall at Le Bon Marché. For home, I bought preserves, tea, tisane, and crunchy sugar, and for lunch in the adjacent park, we bought roquefort, comté, two mini baguettes (one white, one multi-grain), brandade de morue, marinated baby artichoke hearts, grapes, blood oranges, and mineral water. It was quite a feast. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wveq3yP8TX4/TZuJ-BMyJrI/AAAAAAAABDE/ieTErR3MNwU/s1600/IMG_0328.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 298px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wveq3yP8TX4/TZuJ-BMyJrI/AAAAAAAABDE/ieTErR3MNwU/s400/IMG_0328.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592215060877551282" /></a><br /><br />We then hit Hugo + Victor, a highly hyped modern pastry shop, where I bought more preserves (my luggage is getting heavier and heavier), as well as an exquisite box of chocolates. And then, just to top off the afternoon, we wandered along the Seine, basking in the late afternoon glow.<br /><br />Saturday night was the birthday party that was the excuse for this trip in the first place: a splashy blowout in a beautiful 19th-century building near Parc Monceau, complete with hip new band, fancy finger food, and a deadly pastry and cake selection. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--9n2DWlbAY4/TZuJ9ru-QKI/AAAAAAAABC8/Q66sn-k87r4/s1600/IMG_0326.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--9n2DWlbAY4/TZuJ9ru-QKI/AAAAAAAABC8/Q66sn-k87r4/s400/IMG_0326.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592215055115370658" /></a>http://inthenextapartment.blogspot.com/2011/04/samedi.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Marmur Medical)2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6729914410536516567.post-9136300406023987491Tue, 05 Apr 2011 17:35:00 +00002011-04-05T10:36:42.045-07:00Vendredi<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tNmRqYZZHbM/TZrjjZ7qyTI/AAAAAAAABCM/eodVeXQUIBU/s1600/IMG_0314.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tNmRqYZZHbM/TZrjjZ7qyTI/AAAAAAAABCM/eodVeXQUIBU/s400/IMG_0314.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592032084729973042" /></a><br /><br />OK, I've fallen behind, but what would <span style="font-style:italic;">you </span>rather do in Paris: post blog updates, or hunt down more delicious treats? <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FZOa9xRdMqk/TZrjkZk926I/AAAAAAAABCc/MSrTfu3GpK4/s1600/IMG_0312.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FZOa9xRdMqk/TZrjkZk926I/AAAAAAAABCc/MSrTfu3GpK4/s400/IMG_0312.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592032101814623138" /></a><br /><br />Friday was another late start. We picked up formule déjeuner at Erik Kayser, one of my mainstays from my 25 days in Paris two years ago. This time for me: roasted chicken and roast tomatoes with mayonnaise on baguette, eau minèrale, and an <span style="font-style:italic;">insane</span> tarte aux abricots et pistaches. We ate our picnic on the grounds of the <a href="http://www.musee-rodin.fr/">Musee Rodin</a>, where the flowers were just coming out. It wasn't the crazy riot of tulips I remembered from my first visit to Paris, 15 (!) years ago, but it was still a welcome sight to my winter-weary eyes. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ATiRqNBcOMk/TZrjk-4_6PI/AAAAAAAABCk/5At3xwo9c1o/s1600/IMG_0310.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ATiRqNBcOMk/TZrjk-4_6PI/AAAAAAAABCk/5At3xwo9c1o/s400/IMG_0310.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592032111830755570" /></a><br /><br />The museum itself is charming, in a down-at-the-heels way. We noticed the water stains, the crumbling plaster, the cracked glass — and then saw a sign that basically said, We know you've noticed the water stains etc., and we're doing our best with what we have. Understood. <br /><br />Dinner was with R.'s friends, at their home: more roast chicken (all the chicken here is clearly injected with concentrated chicken flavor, making it so beyond the chicken we get back home — even the expensive happy chickens at Whole Foods. I can't figure this one out — explanations are welcome. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CJd1C10MK1s/TZrjkB2ZCaI/AAAAAAAABCU/0GaeP38LIfs/s1600/IMG_0313.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CJd1C10MK1s/TZrjkB2ZCaI/AAAAAAAABCU/0GaeP38LIfs/s400/IMG_0313.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592032095445256610" /></a>http://inthenextapartment.blogspot.com/2011/04/vendredi.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Marmur Medical)2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6729914410536516567.post-2779774781440742048Sat, 02 Apr 2011 10:23:00 +00002011-04-02T03:56:31.269-07:00Jeudi: Le Marais<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DwC3jCY-wmc/TZb9Oz6rLeI/AAAAAAAABA0/VYvdclHzB78/s1600/IMG_0262.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 311px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DwC3jCY-wmc/TZb9Oz6rLeI/AAAAAAAABA0/VYvdclHzB78/s400/IMG_0262.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590934418323353058" /></a><br /><br />We’re not exactly springing out of bed and dashing outside to conquer the city. We’re more slowly emerging from a cocoon of jet-laggy sleep, letting some coffee soak into our systems, and only then, after much puttering and researching and wrapping of scarves and packing of notebooks, do we amble outside, in search of the next delicious treat. <br /><br />Thursday we struck gold, at Au Fil des Saisons, a small, traditional-looking spot in the Marais where we set up camp for a couple of hours. We arrived at the tail end of lunch, but the chef, Loïc, not only welcomed us, he served us, and helped us choose the wine (a snappy and delicious Joseph Drouhin white burgundy), and answered our string of questions about the items on the chalkboard menu. (“Ça c’est egg with mushrooms and cheese; ça c’est snapper, ça c’est ….)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-86E5Yt0HEFs/TZb7whiOOBI/AAAAAAAABAE/rraxjn2_ZCI/s1600/IMG_0239.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-86E5Yt0HEFs/TZb7whiOOBI/AAAAAAAABAE/rraxjn2_ZCI/s400/IMG_0239.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590932798481250322" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Kw6Xcqcmw9c/TZb7wxXUdUI/AAAAAAAABAM/7IJmO5dK4tY/s1600/IMG_0242.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Kw6Xcqcmw9c/TZb7wxXUdUI/AAAAAAAABAM/7IJmO5dK4tY/s400/IMG_0242.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590932802730489154" /></a><br /><br />We had the egg (served in a gratin dish with cream and a mushroom puree and plenty of butter, all broiled together into a beautiful mess) and the escargots, which were stuffed into phyllo cigars and served with a cream sauce infused with 18 cloves of garlic (“Dix-huit?! Non!!”) For plats principaux, we had snapper en papillote with julienned vegetables and a “French risotto” with parmesan, and duck breast with a fine layer of crispy fat, served with potatoes and stir-fried vegetables with soy sauce. This is just the kind of meal that has a certain French flavor and quality (and liberality of fat) that you cannot find in the States, even in New York. I couldn’t do it every day, but for a treat, it was certainly welcome. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ROof0rquDv8/TZb7w5TqHII/AAAAAAAABAU/vaGE8CJyS7M/s1600/IMG_0243.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ROof0rquDv8/TZb7w5TqHII/AAAAAAAABAU/vaGE8CJyS7M/s400/IMG_0243.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590932804862614658" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BsRSXGjUJAw/TZb7xAm3ntI/AAAAAAAABAc/zikyB1la9JI/s1600/IMG_0244_2.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 272px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BsRSXGjUJAw/TZb7xAm3ntI/AAAAAAAABAc/zikyB1la9JI/s400/IMG_0244_2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590932806822239954" /></a><br /><br />Then we set off to wander the Marais, one of my absolute favorite places in the world. Hausmann didn’t get his hands on this neighborhood, so it has old winding streets, back alleys, courtyards, vest-pocket parks, a hodgepodge of building shapes, sizes, and styles that you don’t see in the grand and stately arrondissements. <br /><br />Paris, unlike New York, has museums scattered throughout the city; you’re forever stumbling across some little jewel that has its own lovely treasures. One of the more interesting ones is <a href="http://www.chassenature.org/">Le Musée de la Chasse et de la Nature</a> (The Hunting and Nature Museum), housed (of course) in a pair of handsome hôtels particuliers in the Marais. The exhibits have clearly been designed by someone with a quirky sense of humor; the exhibit on the fox, for instance, has a taxidermy fox in a glass case, around which is built a cabinet with various drawers (one has casts of a fox’s pawprints, another casts of a fox’s leave-behinds), some sliding panels that show a mini-installation of fox drawings by a contemporary artist, and a kind of hologram that shows you the fox’s territory.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5EoDTCxlNQI/TZb7xs013rI/AAAAAAAABAk/Y4WXKcaxpZ4/s1600/IMG_0250.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 533px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5EoDTCxlNQI/TZb7xs013rI/AAAAAAAABAk/Y4WXKcaxpZ4/s400/IMG_0250.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590932818692005554" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-E-9umogDe0U/TZb9PPaCM1I/AAAAAAAABA8/dPcHabsW-Ds/s1600/IMG_0268.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-E-9umogDe0U/TZb9PPaCM1I/AAAAAAAABA8/dPcHabsW-Ds/s400/IMG_0268.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590934425702642514" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fGYi_bEL_iA/TZb9PePX4bI/AAAAAAAABBE/MlwHTEdTM3s/s1600/IMG_0272.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fGYi_bEL_iA/TZb9PePX4bI/AAAAAAAABBE/MlwHTEdTM3s/s400/IMG_0272.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590934429684457906" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cHj5hKffydU/TZb9PgXkVzI/AAAAAAAABBM/pLpaHcBitAY/s1600/IMG_0274.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cHj5hKffydU/TZb9PgXkVzI/AAAAAAAABBM/pLpaHcBitAY/s400/IMG_0274.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590934430255699762" /></a><br /><br /><br />There was also a room with birdcalls, which you could call up from a vintage-y box of labeled buttons, and then rooms organized by theme (The Wild Boar and the Stag, The Big Game Hunt, The Unicorn), filled with artifacts, taxidermy, and art. Somehow, it didn’t feel creepy, but instead smart and urbane and elegant.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GscXNw3ia20/TZb9OssIxpI/AAAAAAAABAs/MKjZov6nuqE/s1600/IMG_0254.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 308px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GscXNw3ia20/TZb9OssIxpI/AAAAAAAABAs/MKjZov6nuqE/s400/IMG_0254.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590934416383329938" /></a><br /><br />Already in need of fortification, we window-shopped our way over to Mariage Frères for some Assam and thé vert, and a green tea financier and a citron macaron. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NVFa0RQM1qM/TZb_VfybA8I/AAAAAAAABCE/DXzWeol6aeI/s1600/IMG_0279.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NVFa0RQM1qM/TZb_VfybA8I/AAAAAAAABCE/DXzWeol6aeI/s400/IMG_0279.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590936732202369986" /></a><br /><br />We then lingered in Place des Vosges, undoubtedly one of the most serene, most dignified spots in the city. As always when I’m in Place des Vosges, it was overcast, which makes the place even more somber and reserved. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nBypZTjbGEc/TZb95FaADqI/AAAAAAAABBc/V1L7K6jYpzg/s1600/IMG_0292_2.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 532px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nBypZTjbGEc/TZb95FaADqI/AAAAAAAABBc/V1L7K6jYpzg/s400/IMG_0292_2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590935144572653218" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wSiQPuiIeWo/TZb95dcPvrI/AAAAAAAABBk/QhOBP8LBr6I/s1600/IMG_0294.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wSiQPuiIeWo/TZb95dcPvrI/AAAAAAAABBk/QhOBP8LBr6I/s400/IMG_0294.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590935151024520882" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-m1Whz5HLFDA/TZb95LWnR4I/AAAAAAAABBU/1lkl4n0t0zw/s1600/IMG_0289.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-m1Whz5HLFDA/TZb95LWnR4I/AAAAAAAABBU/1lkl4n0t0zw/s400/IMG_0289.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590935146169059202" /></a><br /><br />We strolled along the arcades, peeking into hotel lobbies and jewelry shops, before working our way back to the lively part of the Marais, where we had an aperitif at Les Philosophes, a classic corner café on Rue Vieille du Temple (with an amusing sign in la toilette), next to La Chaise au Plafond, where I had my daily breakfast coffee years ago, on my first trip to Paris. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4FEd9ixwQtE/TZb95k12vJI/AAAAAAAABBs/aI1PcV4w2dg/s1600/IMG_0299.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4FEd9ixwQtE/TZb95k12vJI/AAAAAAAABBs/aI1PcV4w2dg/s400/IMG_0299.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590935153010982034" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Our last stop of the evening was Breizh Café, where we had maybe a bit too much of the rich, buttery galettes (Bretonese buckwheat crepes). I couldn’t resist trying the famous Bordier butter, especially when I saw there is a smoked version (beurre fumé!), so we started with that, and probably could have wrapped it up right there. But on we went: galette with egg, mushrooms, and cheese for R., and galette with Reblochon, potatoes, bacon, and salad for me. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-f4XEPodNoLY/TZb95w9nDZI/AAAAAAAABB0/RgdFuBpb1fk/s1600/IMG_0300.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-f4XEPodNoLY/TZb95w9nDZI/AAAAAAAABB0/RgdFuBpb1fk/s400/IMG_0300.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590935156264734098" /></a><br /><br />We had to cab it home, we were so full and wiped out and footsore. In the Marain, even in one day, you can really live a very full and filling life. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WJAPw5uyBmI/TZb-eNur_kI/AAAAAAAABB8/KQhbx421_Yk/s1600/IMG_0301.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WJAPw5uyBmI/TZb-eNur_kI/AAAAAAAABB8/KQhbx421_Yk/s400/IMG_0301.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590935782462062146" /></a>http://inthenextapartment.blogspot.com/2011/04/jeudi-le-marais.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Marmur Medical)10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6729914410536516567.post-8097247779553789932Thu, 31 Mar 2011 10:02:00 +00002011-03-31T03:44:56.632-07:00I'm baaaaack.....<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zKGrV-tf31g/TZRZ6qXtlvI/AAAAAAAAA_c/lsWutZ-Fx6c/s1600/IMG_0199.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 303px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zKGrV-tf31g/TZRZ6qXtlvI/AAAAAAAAA_c/lsWutZ-Fx6c/s400/IMG_0199.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590191901814658802" /></a><br />This blog is the descendant of another, <a href="http://25daysinparis.blogspot.com/">25 days in paris</a>, which chronicled a trip I took almost two years ago now. I'm back in Paris, in another apartment — alas, for only eight days — and ready to pick up where I left off: gorging on pastry, cheese, bread, chocolate, wine, and (hopefully) <a href="http://25daysinparis.blogspot.com/2009/05/jour-no-19-rive-gauche.html">duck confit</a>. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-m2d1BEHyonY/TZRZ7BeHmjI/AAAAAAAAA_0/AJAr3nCCP50/s1600/IMG_0214.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 310px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-m2d1BEHyonY/TZRZ7BeHmjI/AAAAAAAAA_0/AJAr3nCCP50/s400/IMG_0214.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590191908015544882" /></a><br /><br />We arrived yesterday at 6 a.m., after a couple hours of fitful Ambien-induced sleep. One bleary RER ride later, and we were at our rental, a sixth-floor set-up one block from the lovely Jardins du Luxembourg. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-i3XtjV5T2gI/TZRZ69iySyI/AAAAAAAAA_k/ZiiYiQ-oPyk/s1600/IMG_0203.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-i3XtjV5T2gI/TZRZ69iySyI/AAAAAAAAA_k/ZiiYiQ-oPyk/s400/IMG_0203.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590191906961378082" /></a><br /><br />We took a highly necessary nap, then made our way to Cuisine du Bar, the cafe next to Poilâne, which serves madly delicious tartines such as sardine with vinegar and lemon, and smoked salmon with mayonnaise, all on toasted Poilâne bread. (The smoked salmon is so different from what we're used to in New York — richer, with less smoke flavor and more fish flavor. I approve.) Salad, glass of vin blanc, and perfect café served with a butter-cookie spoon — thank you, Paris, for the lovely welcome back. <br /><br />Post-lunch wandering included an unsuccessful shoe-buying attempt on my part (they didn't have my size in the navy patent wedges!), a restrained visit to Pierre Hermé (we took only one <span style="font-style:italic;">tarte vanille infiniment</span>, which I will not even attempt to describe [but you can read about it <a href="http://www.parispatisseries.com/2010/05/10/pierre-herme-tarte-vanille-infiniment/">here</a>] and one almond-rose petal croissant, which I ate just moments before scribbling this down), a stroll along the Seine, and a quick stop for staples at Monoprix.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8y8k180sU-w/TZRZ7NbpmwI/AAAAAAAAA_s/0SK9uLpo10s/s1600/IMG_0208.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 270px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8y8k180sU-w/TZRZ7NbpmwI/AAAAAAAAA_s/0SK9uLpo10s/s400/IMG_0208.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590191911226415874" /></a><br /><br />It was rather grey and chilly over the afternoon, and everyone kept apologizing to us for the weather. Meanwhile, I believe New York is entering its sixth month of soul-crushing winter, so to be somewhere with flowers and green grass and a light drizzle, where I don't have to wear five layers and gloves and hat and scarf and boots and STILL be cold.... my entire personality has promptly done a one-eighty.<br /><br />Dinner was with friends Catherine and Loic and their three lovely (and fun) daughters, celebrating Loic's birthday at their home with delicious food and even more delicious wine, ending with a platter of pastry that, for me, was highlighted by the mille-feuille. This puff pastry / vanilla cream delight, which we call napoleon in the States, is one of my early experiences with the glory of French foods. Back in junior high in Connecticut, my friend Annick and I would head downtown to a rather remarkably good bakery called Versailles and pick up a box of two of napoleons, then sit on a park bench and devour them in a couple seconds flat. Unlike so many of my other childhood food obsessions, this one has held up quite nicely. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nKkqjX3i14k/TZRZ7c1eCWI/AAAAAAAAA_8/GbIXdvnLFPM/s1600/IMG_0232.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nKkqjX3i14k/TZRZ7c1eCWI/AAAAAAAAA_8/GbIXdvnLFPM/s400/IMG_0232.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590191915361241442" /></a>http://inthenextapartment.blogspot.com/2011/03/im-baaaaack.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Marmur Medical)3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6729914410536516567.post-7194998510300218149Sat, 29 Jan 2011 01:29:00 +00002011-01-28T17:34:15.693-08:00a string of words<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TUNpgTDTjwI/AAAAAAAAA_A/mqguBl2kIAI/s1600/patti-feather.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 315px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TUNpgTDTjwI/AAAAAAAAA_A/mqguBl2kIAI/s400/patti-feather.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567409567950933762" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Where does it all lead? What will become of us? These were our young questions, and young answers were revealed. It leads to each other. We become ourselves.<br /></span><br />This week, I tore through <span style="font-style:italic;">Just Kids</span> by Patti Smith, an alternately envy-producing and heartbreaking account of her life in New York in the late 1960s and ’70s, when she lived with Robert Mapplethorpe and struggled to find her path in life. Envy-producing, because of the crazy energy and the primacy of the arts scene back then. Heartbreaking, both because we know what’s ahead for the young Patti (way too much loss, as friends and icons, including her beloved Robert, overdose or die of AIDS), and because she imbues her gritty, clear-eyed book with such delicacy and sweetness.<br /><br />When Robert and Patti first live together, it’s in a tiny apartment in Brooklyn, near Pratt. They have no TV, no money to go out, barely any money for books or magazines, so they spend all their time writing and making art. They’ll draw for hours, side by side, figuring out their styles, incorporating new influences, pushing each other to be better. It’s so sweet, how excited she was by the life she and Robert created for themselves. They were so broke that they’d stand on the street in a state of indecision, trying to choose between a meal at the diner or supplies from the art store; they only had enough money for one or the other. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TUNpgUT6L3I/AAAAAAAAA-4/Z-EXObr2kVQ/s1600/chelsea.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 219px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TUNpgUT6L3I/AAAAAAAAA-4/Z-EXObr2kVQ/s400/chelsea.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567409568289009522" /></a><br /><br />They move into a tiny room at the Chelsea Hotel, where Patti finds a family of sorts, a family of slightly damaged, driven outcasts, an Island of Misfit Toys, or, as Patti refers to it, “a doll’s house in the Twilight Zone.” You could get by on very little money in New York in the ’70s. Not only could Patti and her compadres trade art for rent at the Chelsea or for drinks at Max’s Kansas City, but they could find raw space downtown for next to nothing, and maybe get the landlord to give them a couple months for free if they agreed to clean out the junk. <br /><br />For example, since their shared room at the Chelsea doesn’t give him enough space to make art, Robert finds them a new home: an entire floor above the Oasis Bar, on the same block as the hotel. (Can you even imagine? It wasn’t <span style="font-style:italic;">that</span> long ago that two chronically broke, near-starving artists could rent <span style="font-style:italic;">an entire floor</span> in the heart of <span style="font-style:italic;">Chelsea</span>. OK, maybe there was no toilet or shower, but <span style="font-style:italic;">still</span>. A whole floor, with big windows and lots of light and plenty of space, smack in the middle of NYC. <span style="font-style:italic;">Damn</span>.) <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TUNpgGvfluI/AAAAAAAAA-w/8uwN_8sYGRc/s1600/maxs.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 319px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TUNpgGvfluI/AAAAAAAAA-w/8uwN_8sYGRc/s400/maxs.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567409564646610658" /></a><br /><br />As she moves through the years of her young life, Patti leads with her heart and lays bare the enormous vulnerability she felt then, a vulnerability that must have been visible a mile off, given the way so many people offered help and encouragement. She gets songwriting advice from Bobby Neuwirth, Todd Rundgren takes her to hear music at the Village Gate, Sam Shepard buys her a lobster dinner when she doesn’t have anything to eat, Jimi Hendrix commiserates with her about being shy and awkward. <br /><br />At one point, she’s scrounging around the Chelsea Hotel room, looking for enough change to get a cheese sandwich. She digs up 55 cents and heads down the block to the Automat, only to find the price has gone up. “Can I help?” says someone behind her:<br /><blockquote>I turned around and it was Allen Ginsburg... Allen added the extra dime and also stood me to a cup of coffee. I wordlessly followed him to his table, and then plowed in the sandwich. <br /><br />Allen introduced himself. He was talking about Walt Whitman and I mentioned I was raised near Camden, where Whitman was buried, when he leaned forward and looked at me intently. “Are you a girl?” he asked.<br /><br />“Yeah,” I said. “Is that a problem?”<br /><br />He just laughed. “I’m sorry, I took you for a very pretty boy.”<br /><br />I got the picture immediately.<br /><br />“Well, does this mean I return the sandwich?<br /><br />“No, enjoy it. It was my mistake.”</blockquote><br />All right, so Ginsburg’s relationship with Patti didn’t start from a sense of protectiveness or altruism, but he ended up becoming a mentor, one of the many who helped her find her way. And now I’m listening to the result of all that encouragement, and all her hard work: her first album, “Horses,” where her fierce confidence comes roaring out at you, showing you everything she’d been through, and how she survived it all. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TUNtol8tyYI/AAAAAAAAA_Q/jUZPZ2WDqrs/s1600/patti-performing.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 169px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TUNtol8tyYI/AAAAAAAAA_Q/jUZPZ2WDqrs/s400/patti-performing.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567414108509030786" /></a><br /><br />I don’t want to romanticize the whole starving-artists-in-the-garret scene, but it’s hard not to be wistful for Patti’s world, where nothing was more important than art and music and writing. I have to admit to feeling a bit melancholic about the choices I’ve made, ones that have given me a degree of comfort, but have taken me farther and farther from a life of creativity. <br /><br />OK, maybe more than melancholic — maybe more like in a tailspin about what now look to me less like smart, practical life decisions and more like lame compromises. I’m trying not to beat myself up too badly — what’s done is done, indulging in regret means I’m living in the past, not in the present moment, and I’m causing myself pain. But I’ve learned that I can’t just put aside my regrets; I need to resolve them. So I’m trying to stay aware of the vibrations that Patti’s book set off in me, to remember the sense of loss I felt as I read her story, and to resolve to make some changes in my life.<br /><br />One way that I can easily derail any resolutions to write more or to make art is to say, “But what’s the point? Where will it get me? Will I ever really be good enough?” Patti had her moments of self-doubt too, of course (and probably still does), but she finds a way forward that I’m taking to heart:<br /><blockquote>In my low periods, I wondered what was the point of creating art. For whom? Are we animating God? Are we talking to ourselves? And what was the ultimate goal? To have one’s work caged in art’s great zoos—the Modern, the Met, the Louvre?... Robert had little patience with these introspective bouts of mine. He never seemed to question his artistic drives, and by his example, I understood that what matters is the work: the string of words propelled by God becoming a poem, the weave of color and graphite scrawled upon the sheet that magnifies His motion. To achieve within the work a perfect balance of faith and execution. From this state of mind comes a light, life-charged.<br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TUNtoqAHJ9I/AAAAAAAAA_I/VHSOZww4-gM/s1600/patti-robert2.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 269px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TUNtoqAHJ9I/AAAAAAAAA_I/VHSOZww4-gM/s400/patti-robert2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567414109597018066" /></a>http://inthenextapartment.blogspot.com/2011/01/string-of-words.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Marmur Medical)11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6729914410536516567.post-2111589796547762946Fri, 15 Oct 2010 19:12:00 +00002010-10-15T12:38:01.699-07:00my buddy<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TLipQPpyQbI/AAAAAAAAA-A/8yGUqe2VpZ8/s1600/Screen+shot+2010-10-15+at+2.56.06+PM.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 273px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TLipQPpyQbI/AAAAAAAAA-A/8yGUqe2VpZ8/s400/Screen+shot+2010-10-15+at+2.56.06+PM.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5528354639142076850" /></a><br />I had some bad news recently: last month, my good friend Damon died suddenly, without warning, at his home in Santa Monica. I want to write about him, but I’m in fear of sounding trite or clichéd, since Damon loathed triteness and clichés. But I’m going to try to get something down on paper, as much of a tribute as I’m capable of.<br /><br />I’m in that state of shock, of disbelief, of confusion and incomprehension that comes after someone close dies. After all, we know that things don’t just disappear. Maybe in a movie, a magician can make something vanish in a pouf of smoke, but in real life, nothing disappears; it transforms, perhaps (water into steam, wood into ash), but it doesn’t disappear. So how can a person — a personality, a force, a bundle of irony and wit and loyalty and irreverence and love — be here one minute, gone the next? How can it be that there will be no more reminiscing, no more dinners out, no more commiserating over life and its travails… How can it be that we’ll never again talk about <span style="font-style:italic;">Mapp and Lucia</span>, or <span style="font-style:italic;">The Pursuit of Love</span>, or <span style="font-style:italic;">Brideshead</span> or Diana Vreeland or Frank O’Hara or our imaginary gardens or Abbot Kinney or Martha Stewart or moving to Bridgehampton/Montauk/the Springs or Alec Guinness or bread pudding or Palm Springs or <span style="font-style:italic;">Follies</span>? This makes absolutely no sense at all. <br /><br />Damon and I were neighbors at the beach in Venice for the five years that I lived there. Our building was small, with two units on the ground floor (mine in front, Damon and John’s in the rear) and one upstairs. Our apartments shared a patio, so we could zip from one kitchen to the other, if only to commiserate about the latest dreadful upstairs neighbor. (One trashy couple plagued us endlessly. One morning, Damon came to my kitchen door to tell me that in the middle of the night, he just couldn’t stand the TV noise any more. “I <span style="font-style:italic;">tiptoed</span> outside and flipped the circuit breakers for their apartment. Ah, blessed silence. I stayed up all night, enjoying the quiet. Then at 5 a.m., I <span style="font-style:italic;">tiptoed</span> back out and flipped it all back on.” The brilliant crowning touch was a few days later, when the power went out in all of Venice and Santa Monica. Damon and I were standing in the front yard, surveying the darkness, when the upstairs neighbor joined us. “I can’t believe the damn power has gone out again,” he said. “Mmmmm,” Damon replied, studiously <span style="font-style:italic;">not</span> looking at me.)<br /><br />Damon worked from home and was known to raid my fridge during the day if he was out of coffee or milk, or if was just looking for a snack. I called him one day on his home phone and got “The number you have called has been temporarily disconnected” — he hadn’t paid his phone bill. I thought a moment, then called <span style="font-style:italic;">my</span> home phone number, and Damon picked up on the first ring: “Oh, hi, Siobhan — I’m hanging out in your kitchen till my phone gets turned back on. I drank your Diet Coke.” It’s not everyday (not ever, really) you end up with a neighbor who feels free to commandeer your apartment, and you’re delighted.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TLipPimc9iI/AAAAAAAAA94/Q8PXCyBsImA/s1600/Screen+shot+2010-10-15+at+3.06.38+PM.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 287px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TLipPimc9iI/AAAAAAAAA94/Q8PXCyBsImA/s400/Screen+shot+2010-10-15+at+3.06.38+PM.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5528354627048502818" /></a><br />Once I moved to New York, Damon and I struck up a feverish email correspondence; the pile of printouts currently stacked on my living room floor is a good four inches thick. They range from frivolity (shopping as therapy) to angsty (the big life questions) to utterly, delightfully inane (the imaginary adventures of our alter egos, a pair of drug-addled b-list types who apparently traveled the world getting into situations with everyone from Henry Kissinger to Jackie O), with a significant portion devoted to books and theater. Pretend you’re me, ten years ago, working at a bland and dreary job, watching the clock, trying to keep up the hateful billable hours, listening to the woman in the next cube (possibly the most inane woman on the planet) endlessly plan her daddy-funded dream wedding, when *ping!* comes an email that starts off like this:<br /><br /><blockquote>6/6/00: Furthermore, understand completely about states of dispiritedness as have been in one for years. Have often had trouble with idea that Life Is A Cabaret. More often have felt it to be an 8 a.m. lecture on Applied Physics that goes on through lunch. You fall asleep, you wake up, you fall asleep, you wake up, and still some old bald man is droning on about Infrared Frequencies. Talk about your Gravitational Pull! Talk about your Inertia! <br /></blockquote><br />Really, is it any surprise that for years, as evidenced by the printed-out pile next to me, I apparently did nothing but email Damon? <br /><br />We were as like as peas in a pod. A good portion of our email exchanges would probably be incomprehensible to anyone else, since there’s a lot of “As you well know” and “I don’t need to tell <span style="font-style:italic;">you</span>” and “It goes without saying.” The emails are funny — really, remarkably funny, I must say — but they’re also almost painfully honest and raw, filled with our fears and disappointments and doubts (often draped in irony), and our inability to figure out how to proceed.<br /><br /><blockquote>Checking in before heading off to therapy, the notion of which now bores me to pieces. Can’t get into a talking-about-myself-and-all-my-little-problems mode these days, so just sit and stare at therapist who, in obligatory therapeutic manner, just stares right back. Tick tock tick tock.<br /></blockquote><br />We had an ongoing game of coming up with memoir titles. Damon was a pro at this: he had a whole series of imagined memoirs, starting with “I Don’t Mind Walking” (later revised to “No Thanks, I’ll Crawl”) and culminating in what he saw as his late-in-life look back at everything, “Enough Already.” He also had a title for a self-help book on an as-yet-to-be-determined subject, “Brace Yourself.” In real life, he worked in development for the movies, which involved contact with lots of people — famous and not — who were ripe pickings for his acid pen. <br /><br /><blockquote>2/22/01: Well yesterday was a garden of earthly delights. I had a 3 p.m. meeting at Warner Bros. which is in Burbank or something. It took me four freeways and one hour to get there. It was stop and go much of the way until the clouds finally broke on the 134 and we got up to speeds of 40 m.p.h. However a truck in front of me lost its tarp and its contents began to rain down upon us. Millions and millions of Saltine crackers and dried corn — I AM NOT KIDDING! — snowed the skies. I had my window open so my car quickly filled with these delicious tidbits — meant, no doubt, for the slaughterhouse chickens of West Covina. I mean I was literally picking Saltines and dried corn out of my hair and sweater during the meeting. Plus, I was meeting with one Paula Weinstein who had a toothpick in her mouth the whole time! I AM NOT KIDDING! <br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TLiqmy-vItI/AAAAAAAAA-Q/3vKK-e7xUec/s1600/gertrudejekylls.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 375px; height: 281px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TLiqmy-vItI/AAAAAAAAA-Q/3vKK-e7xUec/s400/gertrudejekylls.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5528356126093943506" /></a><br />Damon’s boyfriend, John, tells me that he wishes that Damon could have had the garden he always dreamed of, and in our emails, there is a surprising amount of garden talk, given that we were each living in apartments, tending at most to a few potted plants. Gardening, I think, represented a way of life outside the day-to-day concerns of the working stiffs, a connection not to nature, but to a civilized, quiet, private life, away from the travails of city living, and perhaps away from our own time (especially after 9/11), back into some idealized 1930s British idyll:<br /><br /><blockquote>10/9/01: Nerves decidedly shot as evidenced by huge start at sound of barking dog this a.m. Must seriously consider moving to countryside where plan would be to obtain pair of half-glasses and sweater with elbows out which would indicate to world that I am harmless old he-spinster who is to be left alone to write memoirs. Plan includes learning to put up fruit and veggies (“canning” I believe they call it) with possible cottage (literally) industry such as mail-order truffle business to bring in coin. You know what I mean?<br /></blockquote><br />My last contact with Damon was after my most recent blog post. Among our many, many joint obsessions was Marian Seldes and her inimitable, regal Grande Dame bearing; in fact, it was Damon who gave me the copy of <span style="font-style:italic;">Bright Lights</span> that Marian signed for me. After reading the Marian post, he wrote simply, “This, of course, has special meaning for me, for several reasons. Thanks for it.” <br /><br />Since John called me with the news of Damon’s death, I’ve spent a lot of hours remembering my time in Venice, and a <span style="font-style:italic;">lot</span> of hours reading our old emails. I remember Damon telling me that after his mother died, his friends got used to him bursting into tears out of the blue. I feel like that now, going through the emails. In fact, I feel a bit like Joanne Woodward in <span style="font-style:italic;">The Three Faces of Eve</span>: zipping from one emotional state (laughing helplessly at some classic Damonism) to the next (in tears at the idea that there won’t be any more Damonisms) and onto the next (so angry at myself that I didn’t keep up the friendship as well as I could have, and thereby depriving myself of the fun and reward of Damon’s presence in my life). <br /><br />All those emails serve not only as the chronicle of our friendship, but also as a journal of my first few years in New York. Reading them over, I’m struck by how difficult a time it was for me. I was struggling to figure out a career that made sense (still working on that one, but with less angst), struggling to find friends, struggling to meet that elusive “someone special.” I was lonely and isolated, and felt quite at sea most of the time. Our cross-country, 90-percent-digital friendship, it occurs to me now, was probably my most vivid and reliable relationship in those years. <br /><br />Never having looked back at these emails before, I’d had in my mind that they were mostly just silly, fun exchanges, but I realize now that they played a much more important role in my life. Through his steady stream of emails, Damon shored up my fairly unstable self and helped me through some dark days of the soul. And on top of that, he provided me with a lot of outright joy. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TLitD2QzBII/AAAAAAAAA-Y/yhjj60rzfM4/s1600/2827420661_59d94a531a_o.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 384px; height: 313px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TLitD2QzBII/AAAAAAAAA-Y/yhjj60rzfM4/s400/2827420661_59d94a531a_o.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5528358824214463618" /></a><br />I have a sweet snapshot of Damon and me propped up on my desk, taken during a weekend in Vegas that involved listening to a lot of Abba. Damon is mugging a bit, but I’m just smiling away, clearly so happy — and feeling so lucky — to have such a great pal.http://inthenextapartment.blogspot.com/2010/10/i-dont-mind-walking.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Marmur Medical)4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6729914410536516567.post-3535946616949822067Thu, 12 Aug 2010 12:55:00 +00002010-08-12T06:34:42.890-07:00peerless<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TGPvFZVrbGI/AAAAAAAAA8Y/6DkQwtG_5tc/s1600/carlotta.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 279px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TGPvFZVrbGI/AAAAAAAAA8Y/6DkQwtG_5tc/s400/carlotta.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504506045557075042" /></a><br /><br />Another long absence from my poor, lonely blog. Clearly, expecting the muse to strike without really putting in any effort isn’t working, so here I am, sitting in front of the big iMac screen, determined to persevere, hoping the muse tunes in at some point.<br /><br />Since my life doesn’t seem like a good subject for a blog post these days (I’m in a work slump, feeling unmotivated; and I’m in love, but not ready to write about that), I’m going to digress down some different paths, writing about people, places, and things that I love. And because I’ve been thinking about her lately, and because she’s the cat's meow in my book, and because I could learn a few things about perseverance and focus from her, I’m starting with Marian Seldes. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TGPvEAR3cmI/AAAAAAAAA74/2JFBxG0SymM/s1600/ondine.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 280px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TGPvEAR3cmI/AAAAAAAAA74/2JFBxG0SymM/s400/ondine.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504506021650330210" /></a><br /><br />If you’re not a theater nut, you may not have heard of Marian, and for that, I am truly sorry. She’s a grande dame of the New York stages, with her first role in 1947, for god’s sake, in Judith Anderson’s <span style="font-style:italic;">Medea</span>, directed by — get this — John Gielgud. An appropriate starting point for us, I think, as Marian reminds me of those great hammy Brits like Gielgud and Guinness and McKellan. No one but no one can declaim like Marian, no one can roll words around in her mouth like she can, no one can arch an eyebrow with devastatingly hilarious effect like she does. <br /><br />As the ever-brilliant Charles Isherwood puts it, <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2007/07/08/theater/08ishe.html">“In my view if you have not seen Marian Seldes on a New York stage, you are not a true New Yorker.”</a> Her stage triumphs include her association with Edward Albee; she originated roles in three of his best-known works,<span style="font-style:italic;"> Three Tall Women, The Play About the Baby,</span> and <span style="font-style:italic;">A Delicate Balance</span>, which brought her a Tony Award. She came in at the last minute to replace Dorothy Loudon (who left on doctor’s orders) as Carlotta Vance in a revival of <span style="font-style:italic;">Dinner at Eight</span> in 2002 at Lincoln Center Theater and got her fifth Tony nomination for her trouble. And, perhaps most famously, she’s in Guinness’s book of world records as “most durable actress” for playing all 1,809 performances of <span style="font-style:italic;">Deathtrap</span> (1978-1982) on Broadway: that’s eight shows a week, every week, for over four years. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TGPvFEvYzuI/AAAAAAAAA8Q/CVCPs4HWqN0/s1600/deathtrap.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 231px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TGPvFEvYzuI/AAAAAAAAA8Q/CVCPs4HWqN0/s400/deathtrap.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504506040027762402" /></a><br /><br />I’ve seen her in quite a few things over the years, perhaps most memorably in the unsettling <span style="font-style:italic;">Play About the Baby</span>, which, for all its creepiness, had some of the funniest moments you can imagine, like Marian (as Woman) suddenly making up sign language to accompany Brian Murray (as Man). It’s a scene that is so clearly Marian, you know Albee wrote the part with her in mind:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(Woman begins signing — clearly absurd signing-like gestures.)</span><br />MAN. <span style="font-style:italic;">What</span> are you doing?<br />WOMAN. Signing.<br />MAN. You know <span style="font-style:italic;">how</span>? You know how to <span style="font-style:italic;">sign</span>?<br />WOMAN. <span style="font-style:italic;">(Signing.) </span>It would seem so.<br />MAN. When did you learn? And <span style="font-style:italic;">why</span>? <span style="font-style:italic;">Why</span> did you learn?<br />WOMAN. <span style="font-style:italic;">(Shrugs; signs.)</span> It came upon me.<br />MAN. When?<br />WOMAN. Just now; I just realized I could do it.<br />MAN. Sign away.<br />WOMAN.<span style="font-style:italic;"> (Signing; smiling.)</span> Thank you. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TGP4CrsTTXI/AAAAAAAAA9o/rl5YZ7_s6t4/s1600/playbaby.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 275px; height: 363px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TGP4CrsTTXI/AAAAAAAAA9o/rl5YZ7_s6t4/s400/playbaby.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504515894548843890" /></a><br /><br />Not just any actress could pull off Albee’s particular style with the deftly delivered venom and sly complicity that Marian employs. In his review of the play, Charles Isherwood (then at Variety), said this of “<a href="http://www.variety.com/review/VE1117797213.html?categoryid=33&cs=1">the magnificent Seldes</a>”:<br /><br /><blockquote>“I am a trifle theatrical,” she says in her opening monologue. “And no apologies there.” None needed! Seldes’ ample talents — her mischievous comic instincts, her supple sense of language, her elegant bearing, the hint of sublimated sensitivity in her imperiousness and, yes, that outsized theatricality — all are deployed to extraordinary effect here.</blockquote><br />Her deliciously dry wit is evident off-stage as well as on. For instance, in <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2005/06/12/theater/12simo.html?ref=marian_seldes">a misguided attempt</a> to evoke some warm nostalgia for the Howard Johnson’s in Times Square shortly before its demolition, the Times asked a few theater types for their fond memories. Marian’s reply: “I have no memories. I only remember walking by it and thinking, ‘I hope all those people are going to the theater.’” <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TGPvp9KxUUI/AAAAAAAAA8o/zIXlRp1cpJM/s1600/tonys.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 265px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TGPvp9KxUUI/AAAAAAAAA8o/zIXlRp1cpJM/s400/tonys.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504506673650291010" /></a><br /><br />Happily, Marian received a Lifetime Achievement Award at this year’s Tony ceremony, giving the Times Magazine an opportunity to run <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/06/13/magazine/13seldes-t.html">a profile of her</a>, by Alex Witchel. Alex typically (and with somewhat scathing results) resists the charms of her subjects, but she was obviously under Marian’s elegant thumb from the get-go. And why not? When you’re writing a piece about someone who’s giving you quotes like this one, about her one appearance on <span style="font-style:italic;">Sex and the City</span>, as Mr. Big’s mother — “I’m sorry I wasn’t asked back. I think I could have helped him” — you’ve got to feel some serious gratitude that she’s making your job so easy. <br /><br />Alex gets further help in her piece from the various theater luminaries who praise Marian and her inimitable style: André Bishop, Nathan Lane, Laura Linney, and Paul Rudnick, who describes Seldes as “universally gracious,” and goes on to say, “She seems genuinely enchanted in the Harry Potter sense, otherworldly in a way that can’t be duplicated. You feel graced by her presence and conversation, like you’ve suddenly been knighted.”<br /><br />I’m lucky enough to have felt that grace, several years back. It was at Sardi’s, appropriately enough, at a awards ceremony that I knew Marian would be attending, so I quickly accepted my invitation. I wrangled an introduction, and had a two-part interaction, the first part of which went something like this:<br /><br />I. Miss Seldes, I am <span style="font-style:italic;">such</span> a fan of yours. I can’t even say.<br />SHE. <span style="font-style:italic;">(Gently resting her hands on my shoulders and leaning in close; speaking in a low, secret-filled voice.)</span> My dear, you are so sweet to say so. You really are so kind.<br />I. <span style="font-style:italic;">(At a loss.)</span> I love your dress.<br />SHE. <span style="font-style:italic;">(Leaning in even closer; speaking even more softly; looking about a bit as if to make sure no one could hear.)</span> My dear, you know, I didn’t know what to wear, so I took this right off the costume rack, since I knew it would fit, and it really is <span style="font-style:italic;">such</span> a pretty color, isn’t it?<br /><br />Really, it’s not the words that matter in an interaction with Marian. It’s her compelling presence, her ability to train her gaze onto you unwaveringly (Alex Witchel wrote, “Now sitting in front of her, even here, I realized that she never moved her eyes from my face. In two hours, not once.”), her ease with the dramatic gesture (at Sardi’s she gave a deep curtsey, hand on her heart, head bowed, upon being introduced to someone she admired), her beautifully trained, exquisitely modulated voice, and, let’s admit it, those eyebrows. You can’t escape them. (Marian’s performance with Nathan Lane in Terrence McNally’s <span style="font-style:italic;">Dedication or The Stuff of Dreams</span> in 2005 must have been quite the Battle of the Brows.)<br /><br />And now for part two of my Marian experience, which shows that, perhaps because she has never become a celebrity on the scale that many of us believe she deserves, Marian has remained lovably accessible. One of the other guests at the party, amused at my awe of Marian, wrangled it out of me that I had a copy of her memoir —<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TGPvqiHiyiI/AAAAAAAAA84/tYePApgOfQw/s1600/DSC00431.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 414px; height: 500px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TGPvqiHiyiI/AAAAAAAAA84/tYePApgOfQw/s400/DSC00431.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504506683568867874" /></a><br /><br />— and wanted to know why I hadn’t asked her to sign it. “This is why,” I said, and showed him that Marian had already once inscribed it, to someone unknown to me, and it just seemed awkward to show her how this copy of her book, complete with a lovely inscription, had ended up in a second-hand shop.<br /><br />“Oh, who cares,” Jacques said, and zoomed across the room, calling out, “Marian! Marian!”<br /><br />“No. Please,” I whispered, but too late, here came Jacques, towing along Marian, who had a slightly puzzled look on her face. <br /><br />“I understand you have a copy of my book that you would like me to sign,” she said.<br /><br />“Well, Miss Seldes, yes, but I have to show you… well, see… Miss Seldes, it looks like you already did sign this book, but for someone else.”<br /><br />“Oh, my dear,” she said, “let me see.” She took the book and peered at the inscription (no one can peer like Marian), then said, “Do you have a pen?”<br /><br />With that perfect timing that makes her so irresistible on stage, she carefully circled the original inscription and wrote “DELE” (the copy editor’s term for “delete”). <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TGPwNAu0t1I/AAAAAAAAA9I/gRjXegHbfLY/s1600/DSC00427_2.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 270px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TGPwNAu0t1I/AAAAAAAAA9I/gRjXegHbfLY/s400/DSC00427_2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504507275902236498" /></a><br /><br />She then flipped ahead a few pages, and wrote this for me:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TGPwNTvDx5I/AAAAAAAAA9Q/IcOw59AfANY/s1600/DSC00426_2_2.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 419px; height: 268px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TGPwNTvDx5I/AAAAAAAAA9Q/IcOw59AfANY/s400/DSC00426_2_2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504507281003497362" /></a><br /><br />I mean, <span style="font-style:italic;">really</span>. <br /><br />Marian’s last New York stage appearance (to date), as far as I know, was in <span style="font-style:italic;">La Fille du Régiment</span> at the Met, which I missed, to my eternal regret, since she appeared thusly:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TGP3fA2rHLI/AAAAAAAAA9g/hbqkApLpV2E/s1600/fille.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 265px; height: 491px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TGP3fA2rHLI/AAAAAAAAA9g/hbqkApLpV2E/s400/fille.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504515281754201266" /></a><br />Her last Broadway appearance (again, to date) was in Terrence McNally’s <span style="font-style:italic;">Deuce</span> in 2007, with another old pro, Angela Lansbury. They played tennis stars from the good old days, making an appearance for fans years after their retirement at the U.S. Open, reminiscing and commiserating and showing a few cracks in the surface that, given the context (how many more times would we get to see these two vets?), were pretty heart-breaking. <br /><br />Marian looked quite frail at the Tony Awards, and one must face the fact that we may not see her on stage again. But her astonishing career (both <a href="http://ibdb.com/person.php?id=16116">on Broadway</a> and <a href="http://www.lortel.org/LLA_archive/index.cfm?search_by=people&first=Marian&last=Seldes&middle=">off</a>), her obvious sense of herself as a craftsperson, and her clearly evident joy at being part of the theater world — all this serves as inspiration to me, a reminder of the payoff of hard work, of persevering. It sounds corny, but Marian has taught me a lot. <br /><br />Which I’m sure would please her, since she clearly values her experiences teaching acting to students such as Kevin Kline, Robin Williams, Laura Linney, and Patti LuPone. In the Times Magazine piece, Marian sums up her contributions in her typically articulate, thoughtful manner: <br /><br /><blockquote>“Well, I love a task, I really do,” she said modestly. “I got scared toward the openings of each play, of course. But I’m not afraid on a stage. I’m afraid in life.” Not today, though, on the eve of a lifetime achievement award. What feels like a great achievement now? “Maybe the teaching,” she said. “I hope so. Because that’s helping somebody. It was the hardest thing too, because it takes an energy. If you look away from a student’s eyes at the wrong moment, you can hurt them.”</blockquote><br />Marian is currently on screen in <span style="font-style:italic;">The Extra Man</span>, which doesn’t sound like a particularly great film (anyone seen it?), but which I must see, if only because she plays a character named Vivian who looks like this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TGPvEuze3JI/AAAAAAAAA8A/ih1YyMFVUuI/s1600/extraman.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TGPvEuze3JI/AAAAAAAAA8A/ih1YyMFVUuI/s400/extraman.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504506034139356306" /></a><br /><br />Clearly, there will be swanning about, which is all I need to know. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">{From top: as Carlotta Vance in</span> Dinner at Eight<span style="font-style:italic;">; in </span>Ondine<span style="font-style:italic;">; with John Wood and a very young Victor Garber in</span> Deathtrap<span style="font-style:italic;">; in</span> The Play About the Baby<span style="font-style:italic;">; at the 2010 Tony Awards; in</span> La Fille du Régiment<span style="font-style:italic;">; in </span>The Extra Man.<span style="font-style:italic;">}</span>http://inthenextapartment.blogspot.com/2010/08/peerless.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Marmur Medical)6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6729914410536516567.post-5537989873709256833Sun, 06 Jun 2010 20:33:00 +00002010-06-06T13:46:05.075-07:00paint chips and procrastination<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TAwHC7FiicI/AAAAAAAAA7w/iMhtvuBmN6Q/s1600/chips1+5.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 245px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TAwHC7FiicI/AAAAAAAAA7w/iMhtvuBmN6Q/s400/chips1+5.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479762593405110722" /></a><br /><br />What is it about moving into a new home that sends one completely over the edge? They say that, when it comes to stressful situations, moving is up there with losing one’s job or having a close friend die or getting a divorce, but why? Why can’t it feel like an exciting fresh start? A new adventure? An opportunity to purge oneself of excess belongings? Why does it make one — okay, why does it make <span style="font-style:italic;">me</span> — feel like I want to pick up and flee? <br /><br />That’s a bit of a prologue to my apology for being in absentia for nearly three (!) months. I’m always a bit of a procrastinator, but <span style="font-style:italic;">three months</span> of stalling is quite an accomplishment, even for me. Here’s my long excuse: When last we spoke, I’d been summarily booted out of my fantastic apartment in the heart of the city, just five weeks after I’d moved in. (Really, it felt as if I had just unwrapped the very last teacup and placed it in the cupboard when the knock came on the door.) And those five weeks of domesticity came after close to two years of trav’lin’ light, with nearly all my belongings in a mysterious storage unit in the Bronx. So I’d been blissed out to have a place of my own once again, and deeply enjoying picking out new furniture, arranging my books, having friends over, getting to know the neighborhood. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TAwHCaioPuI/AAAAAAAAA7g/53XNC_qqvg0/s1600/chips1+3.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 245px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TAwHCaioPuI/AAAAAAAAA7g/53XNC_qqvg0/s400/chips1+3.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479762584668749538" /></a><br /><br />For those of you who have gone through it, you know that there’s nothing quite like apartment-hunting in New York. Even in a “troubled” economy, it’s a blood sport: if you find something that looks good, you’ve got to pull the trigger pronto, because it ain’t gonna be there tomorrow. And you’ve got to kiss a lot of toads (gloomy, cramped, dingy toads) before you find anything that’s (a) livable, and (b) relatively affordable. To go through this twice in the span of a couple months was enough to send me in quite the spiral, leading to my neglect of the following: friends, family, books, work, journal, therapy, exercise, and, of course, you. <br /><br />I’ll spare you the gory details of the Great Apartment Search, Part Two, except to say that I just couldn’t find a place that I clicked with (and comparing everything unfavorably to the One That Got Away). I finally got so sick of the whole damn process that I threw in the towel and signed the lease on a less-than-perfect place (which, however, has more closets than I’ve ever seen in a New York apartment, which is nothing to sneeze at and is, to be honest, probably the reason I took the place). Then I went through agonies of renter's remorse, followed by the conviction that I would love the apartment more if I painted it, followed by agonies of choosing colors and taping walls and painting till I dropped. <br /><br />And now here I am, in the final stages of cleaning and unpacking and sorting, and trying not to continuously compare the new place to the old, and trying not to let the new place symbolize to me this whole period of upheaval and discombobulation. (It doesn’t help that I keep reading about my old neighborhood, which has become the new “It” zone — it’s like getting unwanted updates on an ex who’s doing fabulously without you.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TAwHCgDBHWI/AAAAAAAAA7o/Ho0JCphqNsU/s1600/chips1+4.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 241px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TAwHCgDBHWI/AAAAAAAAA7o/Ho0JCphqNsU/s400/chips1+4.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479762586146774370" /></a><br /><br />What I <span style="font-style:italic;">am</span> trying to do is get back in the swing of things — reconnecting to people, responding to embarrassingly old emails and messages, focusing once again on work, and creating epic, multi-page to-do lists. And, perhaps, looking ahead and thinking about where I’m headed. As part of my re-emergence, I had drinks with a friend the other night who’s going through her own upheavals and crises. We got on the subject of trying to balance living in the present with planning for the future, and she said, “I keep catching myself saying, ‘I just need to get through June,’ and then realizing how crazy that is — ‘just get through?’ Really? That’s the goal?”<br /><br />The past few months seemed like a kind of limbo as I lived them, with no routine, no real structure, no home base, just getting through the days, flip-flopping between lazily enjoying my lack of responsibility, and freaking out about what the hell am I doing with my life. From where I’m sitting now (my genteelly shabby living room), I have a bit more perspective and can see that this hasn’t been just an aimless interlude, that there were some positives: I re-confirmed to myself that, despite the hassle and the expense and the perfidy of its landlords, I choose to be in New York for the time being. I found that my friends are even more amazing than I’d realized, as they offered help and commiserated and generally stepped up when I needed them. I had the opportunity (*sigh*) to confront some of my chronic anxieties about money and work and the future, since they all rose up en masse and tried to take me down (an experience that also got me back on the therapy track, thankfully).<br /><br />And, Gentle Reader, there’s this: I met a wonderful guy who turned out to be astonishingly supportive and helpful and sweet during this whole kerfuffle (and who helped paint the kitchen <span style="font-style:italic;">and</span> the bedroom), and you know what? We went and fell in love. <br /><br />How’s that for burying the lede? <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TAwHB9PxKrI/AAAAAAAAA7Y/W94m-wZq_qs/s1600/chips1+1.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 237px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/TAwHB9PxKrI/AAAAAAAAA7Y/W94m-wZq_qs/s400/chips1+1.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479762576805014194" /></a>http://inthenextapartment.blogspot.com/2010/06/paint-chips-and-procrastination.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Marmur Medical)7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6729914410536516567.post-3794721314590382239Sat, 13 Mar 2010 16:14:00 +00002010-03-13T08:21:42.164-08:00square one<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S5u6yo4gPUI/AAAAAAAAA7I/lChuKE4O1ZE/s1600-h/tramp.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 375px; height: 298px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S5u6yo4gPUI/AAAAAAAAA7I/lChuKE4O1ZE/s400/tramp.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448153553365384514" /></a><br /><br />There are certain relationships that seem so perfect, so meant-to-be right, so love-at-first-sight, that you almost can’t believe it’s really happening to you. Everything just seems to fall right into place, and you walk around in a happy glow, so thrilled that life has given you such a winning hand. <br /><br />Well, as they say, if it looks too good to be true, it probably is. You may remember my lovely new apartment, the one I just moved into on Feb. 1, the one where I was finally feeling settled after nearly two years of shuttling from one spot to another. It had seemed so serendipitous, the way we found each other — it was enough to make me believe in fate, or the universe looking out for me, or something.<br /><br />I’d loved the industrial feel of the apartment, with its lofty ceilings and huge metal-framed windows — it clearly had started life as a manufacturing space. The owners had taken care to create 54 quite nice apartments, with good kitchens and big bathrooms and great layouts. Unfortunately, in all the to-do of converting the building into rental apartments, no one seems to have taken a moment to <span style="font-style:italic;">officially</span> convert the building from commercial to residential. And somehow, after years of tenants and leases and amenities and staff (and years of annual inspections by the Fire Department), the city apparently never noticed this minor detail, until this past Tuesday, when the Department of Buildings somehow got prompted to take a look at the situation, with the result that the building was shut down on the spot, and I and the rest of the tenants were given a couple hours to pack up some necessities and find a place to stay.<br /><br />And it doesn’t look like this is a paperwork issue that’s going to be cleared up in a week or so. Not only was the building never zoned as residential, but it violates some fairly serious codes, like the one about residential buildings having more than one staircase or “egress” (no one ever says “exit” in the world of planning and zoning), or the one about residential buildings having a fire escape, or the minor one about residential buildings having sprinkler systems. As the very sympathetic cop said on Tuesday, as he briefed us shell-shocked tenants in the lobby, “I feel for you guys, I really do, but there’s no way we can let you stay here. God forbid [pronounced ‘Gad fehbid’] there’s a fire in the stairwell — you’d all die. This place is a deathtrap.”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S5u6yBupvlI/AAAAAAAAA7A/5abLzPKMqC4/s1600-h/Hitchhikers.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 394px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S5u6yBupvlI/AAAAAAAAA7A/5abLzPKMqC4/s400/Hitchhikers.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448153542855081554" /></a><br /><br />Hard to argue with that logic. (And <span style="font-style:italic;">very </span>hard to understand how those fire department inspectors managed to miss all this over the years.)<br /><br />That sympathetic cop was joined by several other of New York’s Finest, along with a contingent of New York’s Bravest in three fire engines, the OEM, the Department of Buildings, the Red Cross (to make sure everyone had somewhere to go that night), and, of course, a few intrepid reporters who were salivating over the story of an entire “luxury” apartment building (no one told <span style="font-style:italic;">me</span> it was luxury!) being evacuated, and all its occupants being vacated with almost no notice. <br /><br />So, crazy as it seems, I’m back on the hunt for an apartment, less than two months after finding this place. I have no brilliant insights to draw, other than increased appreciation for Cindy Adams’ sign-off: “Only in New York, kids, only in New York.” In terms of my sanity, I’ve managed to not utterly freak out (after a few minor breakdowns in the first 48 hours), and I haven’t gone back to my apartment for more than a couple minutes at a time, so I’m already moving on, and not getting too stuck in “But this place was <span style="font-style:italic;">perfect</span> for me!” <br /><br />Hopefully, my return to living out of a suitcase will be limited to a couple weeks; as much as I enjoyed some of the adventures of the past two years, and the footloose-and-fancy-free-ness of it all, it had been such a relief to finally have a place of my own again, to start to put together a routine and some (relatively) long-term plans. I must admit that, in the immediate aftermath of the evacuation (the Post referred to us as “evict-ims,” which I thought was pretty cute), a part of me wanted to toss everything back into storage and pull a <a href="http://25daysinparis.blogspot.com/">25 days in _________</a>, skipping town on the drama and hassles. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S5u6zE182PI/AAAAAAAAA7Q/2edtR30Ap38/s1600-h/Chilly_Willy_Running_Away1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 143px; height: 162px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S5u6zE182PI/AAAAAAAAA7Q/2edtR30Ap38/s400/Chilly_Willy_Running_Away1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448153560870869234" /></a><br /><br />But my five weeks in the deathtrap were great, really, and I want to have some kind of focus and direction right now, to set up a bit of a life for myself. So this afternoon (a nasty, cold, rainy, windy, raw afternoon), I’ll be back out there with a broker whose instructions include “no illegal conversions,” looking at apartments and hopefully (please, Universe, <span style="font-style:italic;">please</span>) finding the <span style="font-style:italic;">next</span> next apartment without too much trudging and angst.http://inthenextapartment.blogspot.com/2010/03/square-one.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Marmur Medical)10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6729914410536516567.post-8880764518202930175Sat, 06 Mar 2010 01:22:00 +00002010-03-05T17:46:33.587-08:00hearts and minds<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S5GvjN8_EcI/AAAAAAAAA6Y/HtsBu5D2_3c/s1600-h/falling_rocks.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S5GvjN8_EcI/AAAAAAAAA6Y/HtsBu5D2_3c/s400/falling_rocks.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445326444043375042" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">He was sure that he wouldn't feel at ease for even a moment until he knew exactly when he would once again press her tightly against himself. She said yes. And the sense of relief that came flooding into his soul was so powerful that for a brief moment he even questioned if their getting together the next day really mattered to him at all or not. But that doubt was quickly dispelled, for he had read enough literature to believe that anxiety, even more than jealousy, is the great driving force of passion.<br />— Françoise Sagan, That Mad Ache<br /></span><br />There’s nothing like romance for dredging up slag heaps of irrational, overwhelming fears: fear of pain, of humiliation, of abandonment, of need and neediness, of vulnerability, of rejection, of loss — et cetera, et cetera — all leading to an antsy anxiety that makes it difficult to simmer down and focus on anything else (like, say, writing a blog post).<br /><br />The new romance in my life, while pretty great in many ways, faces a few significant hurdles / potential dealbreakers that leave me feeling very unsure and hesitant about how to proceed: Should I dive in and shoot for happiness, even if it’s short-term and ends in tears, or should I hedge my bets and adopt a cautious, practical, wait-and-see attitude? Should I be open and trusting (major effort for me), or should I be guarded and self-protective? Should I bolt?<br /><br />How you would respond to these questions probably reveals how much of a romantic you are (it’s kind of like a Cosmo quiz, without the exclamation points and sex tips). My path in the past would have been a demented combo platter: throw myself in full force without any due diligence, committing my heart 100 percent, but <span style="font-style:italic;">not tell anyone</span>, least of all the object of my affection, and instead maintain a brittle veneer that was somehow supposed to hide and protect me. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S5GvjveNVYI/AAAAAAAAA6o/9suzbK1Ay6g/s1600-h/caution-slippery.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 278px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S5GvjveNVYI/AAAAAAAAA6o/9suzbK1Ay6g/s400/caution-slippery.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445326453041091970" /></a><br /><br />Of course, that brittle veneer doesn’t do much, in the end. I remember one boyfriend, at the messy denouement of our relationship, saying, “Funny: I’d always thought you were so tough.” <br /><br />Yes, <span style="font-style:italic;">very funny</span>. Actually, I’m tough in all sorts of ways and in all sorts of situations, but when it comes to romance — not so much. Instead, I veer recklessly from utter giddiness and delight to utter dejection and despair, with occasional forays into a state of being curiously unmoved and resigned — the “whatever” mode.<br /><br />For example: In this current situation, with the aforementioned hurdles, if he’s being prudent and advocating caution and talking up the importance of behaving sensibly (as if!), I can feel myself, as the words are coming out of his mouth, wanting to say, “No! Let’s go for it! Let’s do that fools-rush-in thing!” and simultaneously wanting to retreat to my corner and get that chip back on my shoulder, the one that indicates that I don’t care at all, fine, do what you want, makes no diff to me. <span style="font-style:italic;">Whatever</span>.<br /><br />Anxiety might be “the great driving force of passion,” per Mlle Sagan, but I’ve had enough of it, thanks. I’d be happy to move past this stage, into one of happy anticipation of what is to come, with a reassuring sense of security. I hate feeling (especially at this point in my life) that wanting what I want is a mistake, that being vulnerable is something to hide, or to conquer, or to be ashamed of. <br /><br />I suppose the goal right now should be to live in the moment as much as possible and have fun and enjoy. I mean, it’s a new romance, it early days yet, it could go in a million different directions, why borrow trouble… And yet, I do feel I need to somehow also keep tabs on the potential for serious damage and decide at some point if I need to cut my losses.<br /><br />This, of course, would involve handing over the reins to Reason, being practical, exercising Good Judgment. Just as I can be tough at times, I can also be rational and reasonable with the best of them, only not when it comes to love and all that. Faced with love and all that, my rational side is tossed into the back seat, and the foolish romantic me is at the wheel, careening recklessly down the highway, flattening signposts and passing on the right. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S5Gvj4TSXCI/AAAAAAAAA6w/K3UMUUa2KCI/s1600-h/uturn.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S5Gvj4TSXCI/AAAAAAAAA6w/K3UMUUa2KCI/s400/uturn.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445326455411203106" /></a><br /><br />I don’t think it’s so much about which is stronger, the heart or the mind, as it is about which listens better. Our minds are right there, part of the conversation; we can create compelling arguments, remind ourselves of past mistakes, resolve to act differently from now on, logically and reasonably try to choose a smarter, safer path. Our hearts, however, remain stubbornly deaf to all of this logic and reason and continue to feel whatever they damn well please, regardless of whether it makes any sense at all. The split between the heart and the mind can be a torment, as we toggle back and forth from one extreme to another, trying to find some kind of solution that appeals to both. (How great would <span style="font-style:italic;">that</span> be!)<br /><br />But when there isn’t a solution that works all around — when our minds are saying “bail” and our hearts are blithely whistling a happy tune and <span style="font-style:italic;">not listening</span> — it can be such a relief to finally admit that you can’t win an argument with the heart (mainly because the heart isn’t even participating in the argument — it’s pulling a Bartleby, calmly stating “I prefer not to” no matter how forcefully you try to engage it in battle). The moment of surrender — of throwing in the towel and letting the heart lead the way — is to feel the relief of giving in: you stop fighting, stop trying to take the wheel, and just sit back and check out the scenery. <br /><br />Of course, I’m headed god knows where, but maybe that’s not all bad. <br /><br />Right?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S5GxRaDQ-CI/AAAAAAAAA64/R4cL6sXZDsc/s1600-h/reduce.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S5GxRaDQ-CI/AAAAAAAAA64/R4cL6sXZDsc/s400/reduce.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445328337076549666" /></a>http://inthenextapartment.blogspot.com/2010/03/hearts-and-minds.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Marmur Medical)2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6729914410536516567.post-2444326672720567301Sun, 14 Feb 2010 23:47:00 +00002010-02-17T12:18:47.553-08:00open house<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S3xI8sH1deI/AAAAAAAAA6I/fZDk3aOauDU/s1600-h/DSC00255.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S3xI8sH1deI/AAAAAAAAA6I/fZDk3aOauDU/s400/DSC00255.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439302657430091234" /></a><br /><br />Well, here I am, <span style="font-style:italic;">finally: </span>in the next apartment! I moved on Feb 1, into a sunny, quirky pad smack in the middle of the city. This being New York, looking for the apartment was incredibly stressful and grueling, and it became another test of my ability to trust my instincts and to keep in mind a sense of what’s important to me. As usual, I didn’t quite ace the test: I forgot that I even <span style="font-style:italic;">had</span> instincts, felt completely overwhelmed and rushed, and got utterly rattled by various brokers doing a hardsell on “building amenities” like roof decks, lounges, gyms, climbing walls (!!), and room service (!!!), or expecting me to be bowled over by a teensy “terrace” or a glam and glossy high-end kitchen.<br /><br />But I don’t really picture myself sprawled on a chaise on a Financial District roof deck or splurging on room service on a daily basis, and to me, New York balconies and terraces seem kind of sad and gray and grimy, and just something else that you have to furnish and clean. And I have survived my entire life — and cooked countless meals — without the aid of a fancy-schmancy kitchen. <br /><br />Somehow, despite my feet being so tired and my head hurting from hours on craigslist, and in spite of my near-irresistible desire to just throw in the towel already, I was able to deflect the deals being lobbed my way (free two months’ rent! no fee! no deposit!) and hold out till I found the Mr. Right of the apartment world. After a particularly frustrating morning of looking and not finding, I had lunch with a wise broker friend who told me, “I’ve seen it over and over again: It’s fate, your home is out there, you will find it, it will all fall into place.” <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S3xICNQhNrI/AAAAAAAAA5w/VRvAdDynDG8/s1600-h/DSC00272.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S3xICNQhNrI/AAAAAAAAA5w/VRvAdDynDG8/s400/DSC00272.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439301652712601266" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Yeah right, </span>I thought, with absolutely no faith in the idea of fate, and went off to meet yet another broker to take a second look at a few apartments I’d see earlier, in a building on Broadway. Each of the three apartments he’d shown me before had had a fatal flaw; one got no light, one faced the back of another building, and one was on a low floor and seemed too noisy. But they were big and spacious and not too madly expensive, so I figured what the hell, might as well look again. <br /><br />The broker and I zipped up to the tenth floor, and he marched down the hall into an open apartment. I followed, took a look around, and said, “This is not the apartment you showed me before.” “Yes, it is,” he said, kind of belligerently. “No, it’s not,” I said. “Yes, it <span style="font-style:italic;">is</span>,” he said, peevishly. “No, it’s <span style="font-style:italic;">not</span>,” I said, equally peevishly, “and I’m 100 percent sure, because I love this apartment. I love it, and I want it.” He looked at his paperwork and said, “Oh my God, we walked into the wrong apartment.” We’d barged straight into a recently vacated place that was still being primped and had not yet been listed, and wasn’t supposed to be shown for another week, and… well, you know how it ends. (I apologize to my broker friend for doubting his wise, wise words.) <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S3xI8SAz_zI/AAAAAAAAA6A/HkxggRhkMEY/s1600-h/DSC00259.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 304px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S3xI8SAz_zI/AAAAAAAAA6A/HkxggRhkMEY/s400/DSC00259.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439302650421313330" /></a><br /><br />So here I am, living life in the next apartment! I love the neighborhood — it’s half gritty and seedy old New York, and half buzzy hipster New York — but mainly, I love having my very own home once again. I love having my long-lost stuff* back with me (though when the mover was bringing it all in — box after box after box — I nearly had a meltdown at the sheer mass of it all). I love being able to make spontaneous plans with friends that require only a quick stroll across town, rather than a schlep to the station, a boring train ride, subway hell, and so forth. I love having things delivered — Indian food, a new table, groceries, books — and I love the doormen and porters who make everything so damn easy. I love that my pals stop by for a chat and a glass of wine. I love watching the constant happenings on Broadway. And man do I love the giant industrial windows that are let floods of sunshine into my afternoon. <br /><br />In fact, overall — despite the fact that I should probably be panicked at the prospect of paying an outrageous Manhattan rent — I’m actually quite relaxed. I have found the elusive feeling of being open to what’s around me, curious about what’s coming my way, not too caught up in anxieties or expectations or fears. And the openness is clearly perceptible to others: I’m meeting people left and right, cool projects are popping up, and my calendar is just full enough to keep me busy without driving me to insanity.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S3xIBzFa9VI/AAAAAAAAA5o/hSziKkEz40U/s1600-h/DSC00269.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S3xIBzFa9VI/AAAAAAAAA5o/hSziKkEz40U/s400/DSC00269.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439301645686732114" /></a><br /><br />Paradoxically, I want to keep a tight grip onto this sense that I’m not latching onto things. I’m trying right now, as a practice, to let each experience stand by itself. If I can stay focused on the moment, I have a better chance of staying tuned in to what I’m feeling, rather than getting caught up in what it all <span style="font-style:italic;">means</span>, or judging an experience based on what it leads to, or what I want it to lead to, rather than what it is. <br /><br />Of course, there’s a reason this is all referred to as a <span style="font-style:italic;">practice</span>. Especially during a time of great change like this one, I can get swept up into all sorts of anxiety about what will make me happy, where I’m going, what I should do, what I should feel. When I crawl back inside from that particular ledge, I try to come back to the moment, to stop spinning way ahead of myself, to enjoy the here and now. Yet herein likes another paradox: I may not want to get caught up in a cycle of predicting and controlling and fretting, but I also have to take into account the need to plan ahead somewhat, and the need to take care of myself. It's as if I have to try to create a framework in which to operate, so that I can stop myself from zooming into situations that seem hardwired for disaster and still find a way to be awake and aware and in the present — to feel the flow — and to trust in the fate that helped me find my next apartment.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S3xI77KQTxI/AAAAAAAAA54/eE87k5_xbAs/s1600-h/DSC00262.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S3xI77KQTxI/AAAAAAAAA54/eE87k5_xbAs/s400/DSC00262.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439302644286902034" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">* Examples of my beloved stuff pictured here — how did I survive without it??</span>http://inthenextapartment.blogspot.com/2010/02/open-house.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Marmur Medical)7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6729914410536516567.post-129700305903053154Sun, 17 Jan 2010 04:52:00 +00002010-02-14T15:47:49.069-08:00new construction<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S1KZEiZAZ4I/AAAAAAAAA3Y/hLXohgQlwQI/s1600-h/castle8.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S1KZEiZAZ4I/AAAAAAAAA3Y/hLXohgQlwQI/s400/castle8.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427568804165085058" /></a><br /><br />Let me give you a piece of advice (and I speak from experience): If you’ve suffered a romantic disappointment, or if you woke up with a nagging sense that love isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, do <span style="font-style:italic;">not</span> that very day go see <span style="font-style:italic;">South Pacific</span> at <a href="http://www.lct.org/showMain.htm?id=174">Lincoln Center Theater</a>, in which Paulo Szot’s gorgeous, compelling baritone first overwhelms you with the promise of romance (<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TwWBj-lfizc">“Some Enchanted Evening”</a>), then destroys you with the pain of lost love (<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vv-umVJhU2Y&feature=PlayList&p=4A50F04506223F92&index=9">“This Nearly Was Mine”</a>), before you’re completely undone with a last-minute true-love happy ending (orchestra goes mad, music crashes over you, stage goes black — <span style="font-style:italic;">oof</span>). I staggered out of the theater into a bitterly cold Sunday afternoon and felt about as far from a tropical happy ending as is possible.<br /><br />My romantic disappointment this time around was a minor one, on paper, yet somehow felt crushing. The only loss, really, was of the castle in the air that I’d built in mere moments, out of nothing but a few thrilling moments and promising “signs” and lots and lots of daydreaming.<br /><br />“You’re letting your imagination run away with you,” my mother always said to me when I was a child. And it’s true: I did feel that once my imagination got started, I had no control over it. If it wanted to freak me out with thoughts of disaster and danger, off it would go, heedless of my growing terror and quickly working me up into quite a state, where a slow creak or a shifting shadow in our old house would make me nearly implode with panic.<br /><br />That imagination still causes me plenty of trouble. I may not have to check under the bed at night, or fret about something dropping down onto me from a tree in the dark, but give me a little material and I can build a lovely 3D vision of the future—or rather, <span style="font-style:italic;">a</span> future—that is so lovely and captivating that I can find it rather crushing to come back to earth and return to my real—and much more prosaic—life. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S1KZEZUc3gI/AAAAAAAAA3Q/6xJyXuZEnbY/s1600-h/castle6.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 279px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S1KZEZUc3gI/AAAAAAAAA3Q/6xJyXuZEnbY/s400/castle6.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427568801730059778" /></a><br /><br />There’s nothing like romance for derailing my ongoing attempts to try to follow the Buddhist advice of living more in the moment. Perhaps this is because romance, bottom line, is all about anticipation of the happy future, about projecting into an imagined bliss. Not matter how enjoyable the romance might be in and of itself, the thrill comes from dreaming of what may come, from hoping that what’s happening now is a promise of what we want to happen later.<br /><br />So a disappointment can feel wildly out of proportion, because it’s not about missing the actual person, or feeling their absence. It’s about mourning the loss of an entire envisioned life, a relationship and a person that didn’t even exist and yet have left a yawning absence behind. It’s about wrenching your gaze away from some glorious vista of love and happiness and enchanted evenings and returning your attention to what, in comparison, can seem as drab and flat as a cold, gray January afternoon.<br /><br />My other current struggle with my imagination involves my now-active search for that ever-elusive next apartment. I’ve seen literally dozens of apartments; if it weren’t for the stress of having to make a decision, it would be nothing but fun to see all the different apartments—and all the different lives—available in Manhattan. You can do quirky in the West Village, rugged in Flatiron, perfectly nice in Gramercy, mad luxury in the Financial District (lap pool! three roof decks! room service! ping pong! billiards! indoor rock-climbing! free breakfast!), corporate in Chelsea, charming on the Upper West. (Can you tell I’ve been reading a lot of real estate listings? I’m actually having nightmares about floor plans and obstructed views and closet space.)<br /><br />And you know, it all sounds pretty great. I walk into an empty apartment and instantly visualize my brand-new life—making breakfast in a cool open kitchen, working at my desk overlooking killer river views, kicking back in a sleek design-y pad, all of the above set to a groovy soundtrack and starring a completely organized and with-it version of me. <br /><br />Early in my search, I found a really fantastic place, which I now refer to as The One That Got Away (damn that broker!). In this one, my fantasies of my future life got seriously out of hand. I had already picked out my outfit for the great housewarming party, had met with clients at the giant metal desk that sat in the middle of the space, had trotted to and from the yoga studio around the corner, zipped over to Whole Foods to pick up some yogurt and apples…. You get the picture. After I had created such elaborate visions, <span style="font-style:italic;">not</span> getting this apartment felt like someone had ripped my whole future away from me. (Again: damn that broker!)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S1KZul4eBVI/AAAAAAAAA3w/FAFqUbnetiI/s1600-h/castle1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S1KZul4eBVI/AAAAAAAAA3w/FAFqUbnetiI/s400/castle1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427569526656861522" /></a><br /><br />And then there’s the fear of picking the wrong apartment! Of making a <span style="font-style:italic;">mistake!</span> Then what? How will I live with myself and my poor decision? <br /><br />With all of this pointless anxiety and self-inflicted disappointment, I need strong reminders of why living in the moment is so key. I got one the other night, again at the theater, this one the Sunday following the emotional tidal wave of South Pacific. This time, I had my wine <span style="font-style:italic;">before</span> the show, and this time, the tidal wave was of an entirely different variety.<br /><br />It was a performance of Thorton Wilder’s <span style="font-style:italic;">Our Town</span>, at the <a href="http://www.barrowstreettheatre.com/whats-on/town.asp#aboutTheShow">Barrow Street Theater</a>. (Go, now—don’t miss it.) Our Town has a reputation, I believe, of being corny and old-fashioned—sentimental nostalgia—but I’m here to tell you that it’s <span style="font-style:italic;">not</span>. It’s lean and poignant and packs a major wallop at the end that smacked some sense of perspective back into me. <br /><br />For those of you who didn’t pay attention in high school English class, <span style="font-style:italic;">Our Town</span> is set in a small town (Grover’s Corners) in New Hampshire, beginning in 1901. Wilder wrote that, with Our Town, he wanted “to find a value above all price for the smallest events in our daily life.” He specifies right up front that there’s to be no scenery, no curtain; we’re just plunged right into life as it’s happening, with no sets or props to distract us. As our guide to the town, the Stage Manager, tells us after the first intermission, “The First Act was called the Daily Life. This act is called Love and Marriage. There’s another act coming after this: I reckon you can guess what that’s about.” Daily Life, Love and Marriage, and the final act: That about covers it, right? <br /><br />That final act is set in the graveyard, up the hill from town, with the dead sitting calmly and patiently, remote from the drama of the living. A young woman who has just died in childbirth—a character we watched in the first two acts—comes to join them, but can’t quite let go of her life yet. She asks the Stage Manager to let her go back and live one more day (her twelfth birthday). He warns her against it (“As you watch it, you see the thing that they—down there—never know. You see the future. You know what’s going to happen afterwards”), the others warn her against it, but she must see for herself. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S1KZFBdUgCI/AAAAAAAAA3o/5QZZmDzwcTE/s1600-h/castle11.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 253px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S1KZFBdUgCI/AAAAAAAAA3o/5QZZmDzwcTE/s400/castle11.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427568812504678434" /></a><br /><br />She goes back, with all her knowledge, and tries to live in her life again—her mother making breakfast, her father back from a trip with a birthday present for her, the cold winter weather—but it’s too much. It’s not only that she knows the future; it’s that now she knows the great tragedy of life. She knows that we all die, and yet we don’t pay attention to life while it’s happening. She sees (and so do we, thanks to an astonishingly powerful coup de théâtre that I'm not going to give away) everything that she missed the first time around, everything that was too familiar to be noticed. And she delivers one of the great devastating speeches in theater:<br /><br /><blockquote><span style="font-weight:bold;">Emily</span><br /><br />I can’t. I can’t go on. It goes so fast. We don’t have time to look at one another. <span style="font-style:italic;">{She breaks down sobbing.}</span> I didn’t realize. So all that was going on and we never noticed. Take me back—up the hill—to my grave. But first: Wait! One more look.<br /><br />Good-by, Good-by, world. Good-by, Grover’s Corners… Mama and Papa. Good-by to clocks ticking… and Mama’s sunflowers. And food and coffee. And new-ironed dresses and hot baths… and sleeping and waking up. Oh, earth, you’re too wonderful for anybody to realize you.<br /><br />Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?—every, every minute?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Stage Manager</span><br /><br />No. <span style="font-style:italic;">{Pause.} </span>The saints and poets, maybe—they do some.</blockquote><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Shattered.</span> I was simply shattered, and reading the lines now, I’m hit all over again. It’s so obvious, so simple, and yet so shocking: The clock is ticking, we’re all rushing toward the end, and yet, as Emily puts it, we’re “shut up in little boxes…. That’s all human beings are! Just blind people.”<br /><br />In her brief time back among the living, Emily can only be heard by her family when she is speaking as her twelve-year-old self, so her mother cannot hear her great plea, but we, in the audience, can hear it: <br /><br /><blockquote>Oh, Mama, just look at me one minute as though you really saw me. Mama, fourteen years have gone by. I’m dead. You’re a grandmother, Mama. I married George Gibbs, Mama. Wally’s dead, too. Mama, his appendix burst on a camping trip to North Conway. We felt just terrible about it—don’t you remember? But, just for a moment now we’re all together. Mama, just for a moment we’re happy. <span style="font-style:italic;">Let’s look at one another.</span><br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S1KZE9k6PsI/AAAAAAAAA3g/HwluZVWOApI/s1600-h/castle9.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 281px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S1KZE9k6PsI/AAAAAAAAA3g/HwluZVWOApI/s400/castle9.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427568811462770370" /></a>http://inthenextapartment.blogspot.com/2010/01/new-construction.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Marmur Medical)2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6729914410536516567.post-1844321678017129681Tue, 05 Jan 2010 00:36:00 +00002010-01-04T16:59:53.292-08:00upson downs<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S0KKO1adePI/AAAAAAAAA24/LTUzFnfX6Ig/s1600-h/seesaw.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 314px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S0KKO1adePI/AAAAAAAAA24/LTUzFnfX6Ig/s400/seesaw.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423048888768362738" /></a><br /><br />Well, here we are: Twenty-Ten. (Such an odd-sounding and -looking year, isn’t it? Very Space Age.) No matter how much I resist assigning meaning to New Year’s, it was still a thrill watching the clock hit midnight straight up, and the calendar flip over to 01/01/10. I suppose, surrounded as we are by top-ten lists and post-holiday diet tips and tax forms (already!!), it’s impossible to stop ourselves from looking back and looking ahead, from taking stock and making resolutions. <br /><br />My favorite resolution ever came from a friend in L.A., years ago: “No more cheap shoes.” As much as I applaud and support her admirable goal, my 2010 resolution, such as it is, is a bit less concrete: I want to work on my court vision. In basketball, court vision refers to a player’s ability to take in the whole picture—to see everything that’s happening on the court, and to strategize the right moves given the situation and the various ways it could potentially unfold. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S0KKIDKwnnI/AAAAAAAAA2g/IUTQlAXiOZA/s1600-h/court+diagram+2009+b.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 211px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S0KKIDKwnnI/AAAAAAAAA2g/IUTQlAXiOZA/s400/court+diagram+2009+b.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423048772201520754" /></a><br />I want court vision for my life—to be able to see the whole, not just the parts, to figure out the different ways a scenario can play out. This would be a change for me: I tend to get focused on some fraction of a given situation, and to react solely to that one aspect—good, bad, or indifferent—and to tamp down any distracting awareness of the whole shebang. <br /><br />This is especially true of high-emotion moments, whether positive (going on a fun first date) or negative (being yelled at by an evil boss). In the past, it’s been nearly impossible for me to step back in such a moment and weigh the situation; instead, I just react out of my own tangled emotional history—in the first example, by projecting way ahead into a happily-ever-after future, in the second by zooming straight into “fight or flight” mode.<br /><br />I have really tried, over the past couple years, to learn to be “in the moment” as much as possible. For me, this means looking at what is right in front of me, right now—not what it was, or what I hope it will be, or what I wish it were, or what it represents—and, given that, to figure out my options and my best move.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S0KKOhktGSI/AAAAAAAAA2w/fzkrZVpC21o/s1600-h/yoga.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 106px; height: 104px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S0KKOhktGSI/AAAAAAAAA2w/fzkrZVpC21o/s400/yoga.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423048883442620706" /></a><br />I’ve had a lot of guidance in this effort—from books, from yoga, from therapy, from wise friends—and have managed to get myself in a much better place than I was just a couple of years ago. Of course, a huge part of this can be attributed not to any innate yogic goodness on my part, but instead simply to the fact that I left my hateful job; it’s much easier to be more mindful (and grateful) if you’re not in a continuous state of exhaustion and jerk-induced panic.<br /><br />But while the lessons I’ve learned are valuable, and while I can see the progress I’ve made, it doesn’t take much to plunge me back into an inchoate emotional turmoil. I was initially going to call this post “nothing but net,” and blather on for the whole time about my astonishing spiritual development, but then I had a setback that forced me to face how far I have yet to travel. Simply put, that fun first date (on Christmas Eve, no less) doesn’t seem to be leading to the finish line of bliss that I’d envisioned. I’m disappointed, naturally enough. The issue is that I’ve instantly taken a relatively minor incident and blown it up into a symbol of everything that’s wrong with me and my life, and, to be honest, I’m wallowing.<br /><br />Still, I’m trying to put into practice what I’ve learned—to try to create a bit of space where my rational self can step in and prevent my slipping straight back into an emotional mess. I hope I can keep my sense of the big picture—that this one incident has no larger message, that I’m not stuck, that I have choices, that I can act in different ways than I have in the past.<br /><br />What I’m working to remember right now is that, as much as I wanted this potential romance to work out, the disappointing outcome is not a measure of failure. As the ever-helpful Buddhists remind me, “Your journey is to know yourself.” The goal isn’t romance, or a new job, or a fat bank account. The goal is being aware, and learning, and appreciating. And if I don’t get the outcome I wanted, whether in a romance, or a work project, or what have you—well, no harm, no foul. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S0KLMlIQOaI/AAAAAAAAA3I/N8FRUgEWpi0/s1600-h/roller_coaster_01.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 203px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/S0KLMlIQOaI/AAAAAAAAA3I/N8FRUgEWpi0/s400/roller_coaster_01.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423049949548919202" /></a><br /><br />Speaking of outcomes: I hope that in 2010, I can more fully understand this concept, so that my sense of the big picture—my court vision—can carry me through rough times, without crazy roller coaster rides like the one of the past couple weeks.<br /><br />An admirable intention, to be sure. And I’ll get right on it—after a bit more wallowing.http://inthenextapartment.blogspot.com/2010/01/upson-downs.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Marmur Medical)10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6729914410536516567.post-7342277928855456556Fri, 25 Dec 2009 18:26:00 +00002009-12-25T10:27:27.822-08:00to those of you who celebrate...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SzUD5I8ozJI/AAAAAAAAA2Y/al2E_fNnZl8/s1600-h/tree.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 450px; height: 450px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SzUD5I8ozJI/AAAAAAAAA2Y/al2E_fNnZl8/s400/tree.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419242006799502482" /></a><br />... Merry Christmas from me.http://inthenextapartment.blogspot.com/2009/12/to-those-of-you-who-celebrate.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Marmur Medical)3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6729914410536516567.post-3406018727749733974Mon, 14 Dec 2009 20:39:00 +00002009-12-14T13:33:35.613-08:00dear jane<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SyalOlB19tI/AAAAAAAAA1U/6Ii-YBSSWvM/s1600-h/austen.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 245px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SyalOlB19tI/AAAAAAAAA1U/6Ii-YBSSWvM/s400/austen.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415197271836194514" /></a><br /><br />I gobbled down a book yesterday, in two big gulps, one in the morning, one in the afternoon. Really, is there anything better than finding a book that so ensorcells you that you can barely tear yourself away, and when you do manage to put it down, it pulls at you like a talisman from a Grimm tale, or something out of Poe, or Bluebeard’s closet, distracting and enticing you until you can stand it no longer.<br /><br />The book in question was <span style="font-style:italic;">The Man in the Wooden Hat</span>, Jane Gardam’s follow-up to her earlier <span style="font-style:italic;">Old Filth</span> (which I also wolfed down). It’s lying now on the bed, its spell over me quite gone, looking very innocent and calm, with nary an echo of its earlier bewitching power. It’s a brilliant book—intricate, smart, and entertaining—so someday I’ll pick it up for a re-read, and it will hypnotize me all over again. <br /><br />Which answers my earlier question, about whether there’s anything better than finding an irresistible book. The answer is, yes: picking up a book that you’ve already read and already loved, and flipping out all over again. <br /><br /><a href="http://selfstyledsiren.blogspot.com/2009/12/tis-season-for-re-viewing.html">In a recent post on the joys of re-watching favorite movies</a>, Self-Styled Siren referenced a <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/05/30/opinion/30sat4.html?_r=2">New York Times column by Verlyn Klinkenborg</a> about re-reading beloved books. “The point of reading outward, widely, has always been to find the books I want to re-read and then to re-read them,” he writes, and you know, I couldn’t agree more. When I was young, I could have made it through all of Shakespeare and most of Proust and a good chunk of Gibbons in the hours that I devoted to re-reading <span style="font-style:italic;">Narnia</span>, and <span style="font-style:italic;">Anne of Green Gables</span>, and the gothic trifecta of <span style="font-style:italic;">Rebecca</span> and <span style="font-style:italic;">Wuthering Heights</span> and <span style="font-style:italic;">Jane Eyre</span>, and <span style="font-style:italic;">Where the Red Fern Grows</span> (crying every single time), and Louisa May Alcott and Frances Hodgson Burnett, and all of Madeline L’Engle but especially <span style="font-style:italic;">A Wrinkle in Time</span>. Those books of my childhood: I can picture the words on the page, clearly see the illustrations, remember lines intact, recall the then-unappreciated sense of hours stretching ahead of me, an afternoon spent blissfully isolated thanks to my book and the always accepted excuse of “I’m reading.”<br /><br />In his Times column, Mr. Klinkenborg writes, “Part of the fun of re-reading is that you are no longer bothered by the business of finding out what happens.” Again, nail on the head: knowing what happens means I don’t have to race to the finish line and can instead savor each delicious phrase. I can experience the joy of the page in front of me, rather than reading as fast as I can in an effort to find out what happens on the next page, and the next, and the one after that. <br /><br />Still, even with a book that I’ve read umpteen times, I can find myself just as nervous as ever on behalf of my favorite characters, perhaps even more so, since I know what’s coming down the line for them, while they remain unaware of their fate. At times it’s almost unbearable to watch them make the same mistakes, suffer the same blows. When I saw <span style="font-style:italic;">Streetcar Named Desire</span> the other night (with Cate Blanchett breaking the audience’s collective heart), I wished the play could come to an end when Blanche and Mitch are alone in the apartment, after their date, and Blanche tells him about her brief and tragic marriage. Mitch says to her, “You need somebody. And I need somebody, too.” They kiss, and Blanche says, “Sometimes—there’s God—so quickly!”<br /><br />Curtain, please. Thank you for coming, ladies and gentlemen, we hope you enjoyed our condensed happily-ever-after version of <span style="font-style:italic;">Streetcar</span>. Exit to the rear.<br /><br />When it comes to authors that I read over and over and over again, no one holds a candle to Jane Austen. I cycle through her novels every couple of years, spacing them out only enough so that I don’t accidentally memorize them word for word. You’d think these books would be wrung dry for me at this point, and yet every time I return, I get caught up all over again. Those books pull me in so deeply that, when I’m forced to put them down for a bit, I feel only half present in the rest of my life, and I can’t wait to return to Austen’s world.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SyalO8VKAPI/AAAAAAAAA1c/zYTqdz5pxsA/s1600-h/janeletter.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 249px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SyalO8VKAPI/AAAAAAAAA1c/zYTqdz5pxsA/s400/janeletter.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415197278091215090" /></a><br /><br />I am far, far too close to the Austen books to have any sort of critical perception of them. I can’t even explain why I love them. They’re like family, I suppose. Which may be why I was so unexpectedly bowled over the other day, when I went to see the Jane Austen exhibit at the Morgan Library: to see an actual letter written by Jane—her thoughts of the moment, her handwriting, her paper, her ink—was so surprisingly moving and intimate that I could barely take it all in. Looking at her letters, I had the strangest and most vivid sense of her as a real person. It was as if she’d walked into the room and said hello—the most thrilling star sighting <span style="font-style:italic;">ever</span>. <br /><br />Rather like the narrator of <span style="font-style:italic;">The Little Prince</span>, who shows his<a href="http://www.srogers.com/books/little_prince/ch1.asp"> Drawing Number One</a> (of a boa constrictor that has eaten an elephant) to any new acquaintance to find out if he or she is “a person of true understanding,” I use Austen as a litmus test of sorts. I confess to feeling slightly suspicious of those who do not truly and deeply appreciate Austen, so when someone tells me that he doesn’t love Austen, or that she hasn’t gotten around to reading at least the big ones, I make a barely conscious note that this is probably not a kindred spirit situation.<br /><br />Unfortunately, these days Austen’s books—perhaps because of the slew of Masterpiece Theatre adaptations and ripped-bodice movies—seem now to be slotted as the original chick lit, not “serious” literature, but barely one step up from a beach read. Austen often seems to be considered a lacy, dainty, missish story-teller, best suited for lightweight book clubs, rather than the sharp, witty, clear-eyed, tough-minded, unflinching writer that she was, and she’s rarely given her due as the precursor to Dickens, Chekhov, Flaubert, even Fitzgerald.<br /><br />The <a href="http://www.themorgan.org/video/austen.asp">short documentary</a> that accompanies the Morgan exhibit includes a quote from Virginia Woolf on Austen: “Of all the great writers, she is the most difficult to catch in the act of greatness.” Perhaps this helps explain both why so many seem to take her for granted (or even dismiss her, as Emerson did—but then, he had no sense of humor), and why it’s so tough for me to put my finger on what I love so much about the novels. Their seeming effortlessness, their no-nonsense pacing, and the utter naturalness of the language, the situations, and the characters—it all combines to make the books a pure pleasure to read, and to effectively hide the sophisticated and utterly rare craft behind them. <br /><br />Several writers (most amusingly the always-entertaining Fran Lebowitz) are interviewed in the Morgan documentary, including Colm Tóibín, who has this to say:<br /><br /><blockquote>If you said you were going off for the weekend and you were doing nothing except re-reading <span style="font-style:italic;">Emma</span>, or taking <span style="font-style:italic;">Mansfield Park</span> to bed—that image for me would be one of pure happiness. I mean, you could bring maybe a person to bed and that would be nicer in some way, but it wouldn’t be as fully satisfying. <br /></blockquote><br />I’m not sure I’d go that far, but I take his point, and love him for it. <br /><br />In a never-visited storage unit in the Bronx are nearly all my belongings (at least, I hope they’re there; I send the check every month with the idea that someday I will see my stuff again). Among the furniture and pots-and-pans and tchotkes are boxes and boxes of books, and in one of these boxes are my Austen novels, agonizingly out of reach for the time being. When I do finally retrieve and unpack that box, I may just take Tóibín's advice and hole up for a few days to reacquaint myself with Austen’s worlds—the perfect way to inhabit that next apartment, when I find it, which will hopefully be soon.<br /><br />Or maybe Santa will bring me these gorgeous new editions....<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SyasxUbOCCI/AAAAAAAAA2M/-FHIXqB_Sx0/s1600-h/sense2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 176px; height: 218px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SyasxUbOCCI/AAAAAAAAA2M/-FHIXqB_Sx0/s320/sense2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415205565256042530" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SyasxLZWBdI/AAAAAAAAA2E/gF9HFJnpwrg/s1600-h/pride2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 176px; height: 218px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SyasxLZWBdI/AAAAAAAAA2E/gF9HFJnpwrg/s320/pride2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415205562832258514" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br /><br />Top image: detail of a Jane Austen letter; second image: example of one of Austen's "crossed" letter, in which the writer, after filling the page, turned the paper 90 degrees and continued writing, thereby getting as much as possible out of each valuable piece of paper, and saving on postal charges to boot; bottom images: new Penguin editions of two of Austen's novels, designed by Coralie Bickford-Smith.</span>http://inthenextapartment.blogspot.com/2009/12/dear-jane.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Marmur Medical)3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6729914410536516567.post-6179135800936217768Mon, 30 Nov 2009 21:45:00 +00002009-11-30T20:08:56.312-08:00shop-a-holic<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SxRMP_Pt1lI/AAAAAAAAA1M/sOLT2AeCvD0/s1600/bags.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 441px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SxRMP_Pt1lI/AAAAAAAAA1M/sOLT2AeCvD0/s400/bags.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410032889937909330" /></a><br />In <a href="http://inthenextapartment.blogspot.com/2009/11/introspections-bitch.html">his mean post-break-up email</a>, my ex accused me of being shallow (or wanting to be shallow, or heading toward being shallow, or something like that—still can’t bring myself to re-read it), of being concerned only with surfaces. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">I wish.</span><br /><br />How great would it be to care only about surfaces! Oh, to be shallow, to skip along through life, taking it as it comes, letting all the junk just bounce off, not caring what other people think about you, not feeling a need to self-analyze and self-criticize and so forth, reading paperback best-sellers, seeing blockbuster movies, caring about Jon + Kate. Quel joy!<br /><br />My friend Laura and I had a detailed discussion about the break-up, in which she offered a classy and helpful metaphor to sum up the situation. “It’s like finding something in an antique shop,” she said, “something that would be great <span style="font-style:italic;">if only,</span> and you think, ‘Oh, I’ll buy it and get it fixed, or get it refinished, or cut the legs down,’ or something like that. But you know it’s not what you really want, and it’ll never be right, and you have to walk away and keep looking.”<br /><br />I have another analogy, one that shows off my shallowness quite nicely, I think, especially when I develop it into a theory of life. Here goes: You’re shopping for clothes, and you’re in the dressing room, trying stuff on. You try on a black shirt and think, “Nothing wrong with that, I could use a black shirt,” or you try on a jacket and think, “Not bad, I suppose, and it’s a good deal.” Then you try on something else—a sweater, or a t-shirt, or the perfect little black dress—and you look in the mirror and say, “I frickin’ <span style="font-style:italic;">love</span> it. I look <span style="font-style:italic;">amazing</span>.” <br /><br />Here’s what I’ve learned: don’t buy the other stuff, the “good-enough” stuff. Hold out for something that makes you feel like a rock star. And more important: trust that you’ll know it when you see it.<br /><br />I’ve been applying my clothes-shopping philosophy to other aspects of my life. I don’t stick with a book unless I love it, I try not to waste calories on something that’s not super-delicious, I don’t pursue a job opp if the initial meeting feels sour… Basically, I try to check in with myself—be mindful, as they say—and make sure all’s well. <br /><br /><a href="http://inthenextapartment.blogspot.com/2009/09/adult-supervision.html">As I’ve written before</a>, I have a lot of issues that come out in full force when I’m in a relationship, and it can become very difficult for me to get my bearings. Like this time: I doubted the gut feeling that was telling me to bail; I felt I should keep trying to make a go of it, because maybe, if I worked through my <span style="font-style:italic;">stuff</span>, everything would click into place, and we’d live happily ever after. I thought my doubts could be coming from relationship-induced craziness, and not from the reality of the situation, which was simply that it wasn’t working, period. <br /><br />During the drawn-out misery that led up to the split, I felt uncomfortable in my own skin, completely at odds with myself. It’s like when you’re wearing a pair of pants that’s too tight, and all day, you’re fidgeting and squirming and you just can’t <span style="font-style:italic;">wait</span> till you can get home, change into your sweats, and breathe easy. That’s what it felt like, when it was finally over: <span style="font-style:italic;">relief</span>. <br /><br />(Unfortunately, the break-up process wasn’t in fact over, though I didn’t know that at the time. There was a slew of drama awaiting me, including his most recent email, which looks like an apology and sounds like an apology, but, honey, that ain’t no apology—you know, “I’m sorry if I hurt you, <span style="font-style:italic;">but</span>”—in which he said he should have “corrected” me more along the way. Oh, really?) <br /><br />Bottom line, despite the fact that the relationship started so romantically, and despite the fact that in certain lights it looked destined by Fate, it didn’t <span style="font-style:italic;">fit</span>—<span style="font-style:italic;">we</span> didn’t fit—and there’s nothing I can do about it now except change into my sweats and lick my wounds.<br /><br />Now, as I do a round of Monday-morning quarterbacking on the past few months, there are a couple lessons for me to remember, the most important of which is this: I have to believe that when the right relationship comes along, no matter how much stuff I have to work through, I will feel in my bones that it’s worth it. I have to trust that I’ll know it when I see it.http://inthenextapartment.blogspot.com/2009/11/shop-holic.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Marmur Medical)11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6729914410536516567.post-8232181740985461758Fri, 27 Nov 2009 18:32:00 +00002009-11-28T17:25:46.360-08:00introspection's a bitch<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SxAbxny4lmI/AAAAAAAAA0s/D-Ualm7sthk/s1600/heads.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SxAbxny4lmI/AAAAAAAAA0s/D-Ualm7sthk/s400/heads.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408853691781912162" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br /><br />Buddhism teaches that it is not how much you know about yourself, it's how you relate to what you do know that makes a difference.... The common tendency, Buddhism teaches, is to use whatever is happening to reinforce a distinct feeling of self: to take everything very personally. The alternative, as discerned by the Buddha, is to hold that very feeling of self up for critical examination whenever it arises. How real is this feeling that drives us, which we ordinarily take so much for granted?<br />— Mark Epstein, Psychotherapy without the Self: A Buddhist Perspective</span><br /><br />Years and years ago, after a particularly bad breakup, my newly minted ex-boyfriend came to my apartment one evening, grimly unpacked a box containing everything I’d given him, as well as the things I’d left at his place, then went up to my bedroom, unplugged the TV he’d loaned me, lugged it out to his truck, and drove off, all without a word. Game over.<br /><br />Today, I’ll play a variation on that theme: pack up the camera my latest ex loaned me, the book he wanted me to read, the earrings he gave me for my birthday that I can’t imagine wearing now, knowing how he feels. It’s almost a ritual, this type of modern breakup: angry emails, screened calls, bitchy late-night texts, and a trip to Mail Boxes Etc.<br /><br />I would have thought that, after all these years of practice, breakups would get easier. After all, I’ve got more in my life that can help fill in the hole, I’ve learned that I can take care of myself, and I know I’ll get through the pain. But there’s an added level of dreariness to the whole thing now, a depressing sense that I should have known better — that I should have avoided some of my typical pitfalls and patterns, should have been more in control, more grown-up.<br /><br />And so 2009 draws to an end with yet another crisis of the soul. (It’s been a year of those, I must say. I hope 2010 is gentler.) As break-ups go, this one initially seemed to be as moderate as possible — not too acrimonious, no big blow-out. Of course, it’s just when you’ve decided that the seas are calm that a giant wave comes out of nowhere and smacks you down, hard. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SxAbymeX8QI/AAAAAAAAA1E/eGctFndCi-A/s1600/the_great_wave_off_kanagawa.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 138px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SxAbymeX8QI/AAAAAAAAA1E/eGctFndCi-A/s400/the_great_wave_off_kanagawa.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408853708607320322" /></a><br />You never saw it coming.<br /><br />This particular wave took the form of an unexpected, vividly detailed, excruciating email from my ex. It packed a whallop, furiously listing one after another my faults and failings as a human being. In his anger, he craftily aimed a lot of his blows at what he knows to be my most vulnerable areas, the parts of me that already cause me the most pain and self-doubt. Hence the soul-in-crisis.<br /><br />I’m terrible at coping when someone is angry with me — and boy, is he angry, a rage that is hard to face, and that makes me antsy, preoccupied, nervous, like I need to be looking over my shoulder. (This is a strange post to write, by the by. It's uncomfortably revealing, yes, but also, it could very well be read by the person who instigated the crisis. I don’t want to hurt him any more than I have, and then my Irish-German pride hates for him to know how much he hurt me, which is making it tougher than usual to scrape together these paragraphs. But this blog is for <span style="font-style:italic;">me,</span> a way for me to try to write through my experiences and find my way out of the forest, so I need to disregard his reaction and soldier on.)<br /><br />There were definitely a few things in the email that were unfair; had they been delivered in person, they would have sparked quite an argument. There were also a few "huh?" moments, which I guess will always remain a mystery. And then there were a couple real below-the-belt hits, not all of which I can recall, but I’m not up for a re-read. But there was enough in there that tapped into my deepest fears about who I am as a person, and what my life is and will be, that my therapist had her hands full. (As she put it, after reading the email, "I can only imagine the number you're doing on yourself.")<br /><br />The overarching theme was that I'm selfish, shallow, cold, and incapable of being in a relationship. Of course, on the one hand, this is just the typical angry post-breakup attack — the pouring out of all the pent-up resentment and grievances — and needs to be read in that light. On the other hand, these accusations are not new to me — I've heard them before, and I've worried that they are, in fact, my great failings.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SxAbyKeOuPI/AAAAAAAAA00/KPc_KdjyudA/s1600/heart.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SxAbyKeOuPI/AAAAAAAAA00/KPc_KdjyudA/s400/heart.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408853701090523378" /></a><br /><br />And you know, he's right about a lot of things. I was terrible to him, and difficult and mean and cold. He didn’t deserve it, I didn't want to be that way, but I was, a lot. It seems that in any kind of emotionally vulnerable situation, my more rational self gets shoved out of the picture, and the crazy, angry, frightened part of me steps up to bat. After all, the crazy part has a lot more experience in emotional situations (lived through plenty of those as a kid), while the rational part hasn’t been given a lot of opportunity to figure out how to handle those moments and so ends up pushed aside.<br /><br />And there’s a good chance that I’m building some fairly horrible self-fulfilling prophecies. When someone thinks highly of me (like this boyfriend did, initially — he put me on a pedestal, it seems, which probably helps explain his extreme anger now: my feet of clay have been a big disappointment), I feel, "He doesn't really know me; if he did, he'd be out of here." Then, to confirm my screwed-up self image, I do my best to drive him away, at which point I say, "See, I knew it: I'm a terrible person."<br /><br />This, by the way, is why this particular post is uncomfortably revealing for me. I’m afraid that I'll show you, my friends and readers, too much of myself, my ugly parts, and you, too, will turn away. <br /><br />This is also why god invented therapy. Over the past year, these are the very issues I've focused on (along with that whole what-do-I-want-do-do-with-my-life thing), which is perhaps why my ex's email hit me so hard: after all this work and struggle, I'm still making the same mistakes, falling in the same traps. I have to have some faith, I suppose, that my growing awareness of these mistakes and pitfalls will help me down the line, but for now, I can panic at the idea that I'm <span style="font-style:italic;">stuck</span> — no progress, no light at the end of the tunnel.<br /><br />So what now. More therapy, more introspection, more attempts to take responsibility for my mistakes without going down the path of thinking that I'm a terrible person. More effort to look at myself honestly, but not to beat myself up mercilessly. And a hope that the lessons I’ve learned from my mistakes will help me avoid similar ones in the future. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SxAbyXa1uEI/AAAAAAAAA08/zPHUcVUtgVI/s1600/phren.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 382px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SxAbyXa1uEI/AAAAAAAAA08/zPHUcVUtgVI/s400/phren.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408853704565962818" /></a><br /><br />As an attempt to begin to change my patterns, I set aside my anger (and my near-overwhelming defensive desire to rebut some of his more unfair accusations, and perhaps lob a few of my own) and tried to write a sincere apology. Once I got started, I found it a relief to say how sorry I am; I felt calmer, as if I got the crazy part of me to quiet down (after all, that part of me isn’t much interested in making apologies) and the more rational part to take charge. <br /><br />In fact, I found that I was able to thank him for what I learned from him, even for the harsh lesson that his email embodied. That doesn’t mean I’m glad I got that email — it was far too bruising, and I’m no martyr — but I think he’d bottled up his emotions for so long that I hadn’t seen the hurt I was causing. Now, thanks to that tsunami of an email, <span style="font-style:italic;">wow</span> can I see it, quite clearly, thank you, and can hopefully remember it in the future. <br /><br />Unfortunately, the only reply was a curt text demanding the return of his camera, but at least now I know that there’s not a lot I can do about how he feels, so I can stop trying to figure out if there’s a way to move us past the resentment to a less hateful place, perhaps give us both some relief. All I can do is try to figure out my own lessons — and send him back that damn camera, pronto.http://inthenextapartment.blogspot.com/2009/11/introspections-bitch.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Marmur Medical)26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6729914410536516567.post-5409875690974889125Sun, 22 Nov 2009 18:53:00 +00002009-11-22T11:19:56.448-08:00LA, the weird and the wonderful<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SwmNyQLbSTI/AAAAAAAAA0c/wv_XUwRt6aA/s1600/DSC01518.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SwmNyQLbSTI/AAAAAAAAA0c/wv_XUwRt6aA/s400/DSC01518.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407008722110859570" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SwmJrcUs_uI/AAAAAAAAA0E/4M3sVfHHREo/s1600/DSC01576.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SwmJrcUs_uI/AAAAAAAAA0E/4M3sVfHHREo/s400/DSC01576.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407004207065399010" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SwmJqgZskZI/AAAAAAAAAz0/gB_zlMf1gS4/s1600/DSC01513.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SwmJqgZskZI/AAAAAAAAAz0/gB_zlMf1gS4/s400/DSC01513.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407004190980215186" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SwmJqR30vJI/AAAAAAAAAzs/ziNv40JLqqI/s1600/DSC01508.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SwmJqR30vJI/AAAAAAAAAzs/ziNv40JLqqI/s400/DSC01508.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407004187080047762" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SwmNyFq-BQI/AAAAAAAAA0U/dXTCL6DmtzM/s1600/DSC01561.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SwmNyFq-BQI/AAAAAAAAA0U/dXTCL6DmtzM/s400/DSC01561.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407008719290369282" /></a><br /><br />A creepy display at a manicure joint on Melrose, Technicolor graffiti, classic mid-century signage, a thrift shop's guardian spirits... as well as the flowers, the palm trees, and my little cottage in the woods of West Hollywood - here are a few glimpses of Los Angeles from last week. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SwmJrvSkmzI/AAAAAAAAA0M/YRrBz1yii1E/s1600/DSC01574.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 292px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SwmJrvSkmzI/AAAAAAAAA0M/YRrBz1yii1E/s400/DSC01574.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407004212156734258" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SwmNykpYejI/AAAAAAAAA0k/8BR1o7mlj-A/s1600/DSC01559.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 278px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SwmNykpYejI/AAAAAAAAA0k/8BR1o7mlj-A/s400/DSC01559.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407008727605213746" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SwmJrCi51ZI/AAAAAAAAAz8/Eymu1L4h4_4/s1600/DSC01528.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SwmJrCi51ZI/AAAAAAAAAz8/Eymu1L4h4_4/s400/DSC01528.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407004200145638802" /></a>http://inthenextapartment.blogspot.com/2009/11/la-weird-and-wonderful.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Marmur Medical)3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6729914410536516567.post-5800940050382793199Sun, 22 Nov 2009 18:43:00 +00002009-11-22T10:53:11.128-08:00eating los angeles<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SwmIQjMgfTI/AAAAAAAAAzk/GP8MQbonAlw/s1600/DSC01541.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SwmIQjMgfTI/AAAAAAAAAzk/GP8MQbonAlw/s400/DSC01541.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407002645541977394" /></a><br /><br />Well, it was a wonderful trip. LA really rolled out the red carpet: gorgeous weather, amazing food, more wine than you could shake a stick at, an ongoing conversation about which madly expensive perfume I should buy from Scent Bar / Lucky Scent, and plenty of that helpless laughter I wrote about previously.<br /><br />Once I get a sense of what 2010 is going to bring, work-wise, I may very well look at making the cross-country move for the third time.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SwmHbNS33sI/AAAAAAAAAzU/zrt1yUe4DSk/s1600/DSC01580.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SwmHbNS33sI/AAAAAAAAAzU/zrt1yUe4DSk/s400/DSC01580.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407001729130028738" /></a><br /><br />Meanwhile, let me relive some of the food highlights: <br /><br />- the sweetest uni at Hama Sushi<br />- pizza with oregano and salami at Pizzeria Mozza<br />- tacos with potatoes and rajas at Loteria<br />- escarole salad with almonds and sunchokes at Gjelina<br />- toasted sourdough bread from La Brea Bakery<br />- olive oil gelato and butterscotch pudding at Pizzeria Mozza<br />- spinach and goat cheese omelet at King’s Road<br />- chocolate-covered dried apricots and tamari-wasabi almonds from Erewhon<br />- honey-marinated hanger steak and pumpkin cupcakes at Joan’s on Third<br />- hamachi sashimi with XO sauce at Hungry Cat<br />- my final meal:scrambled eggs, sausage, homemade english muffin, potatoes, and black tea at bld<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SwmHa9V6VmI/AAAAAAAAAzM/mWqpQI3kJec/s1600/DSC01582.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SwmHa9V6VmI/AAAAAAAAAzM/mWqpQI3kJec/s400/DSC01582.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407001724847806050" /></a><br /><br />- and, best of all, Thomas’s lovely brunch: spinach salad with bacon, tarragon, chervil, and mustard vinaigrette; chicken with mushroom cream sauce and asparagus; a La Brea bakery baguette and fig-anise bread; and cookies with fresh berries. And several bottles of Champagne that I picked up from a store with an unbelievable selection of boutique wines, and an unbelievably rude proprietor. (When I asked if he thought I’d made good choices from his Champagne selection, he said, “I chose them first.” When I asked, “Well then, did I do a good job narrowing down to three bottles?” he said, “At that price point, yes.” Thanks, pal.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SwmHaUqynfI/AAAAAAAAAzE/USUEI4ekUHw/s1600/DSC01583.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RqNnGeow-G8/SwmHaUqynfI/AAAAAAAAAzE/USUEI4ekUHw/s400/DSC01583.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407001713929526770" /></a>http://inthenextapartment.blogspot.com/2009/11/eating-los-angeles.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Marmur Medical)0